


Rift

by Aella_Antiope



Series: Balance [9]
Category: Kyou Kara Maou!
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Consent Play, Friendship/Love, Future Fic, M/M, Polyfidelity, Sex, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-29 00:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aella_Antiope/pseuds/Aella_Antiope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not easy or simple when it’s only two people, with three...well...” Two years after Murata marries Yuuri, the trio relationship hits a roadblock.  As Murata notes, relationships aren’t easy, particularly when it involves an insecure prince, an inexperienced king, a god, and a jaded wise man who had long ago lost faith in happy endings.  Set shortly before <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/174343">Life’s Choices</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was betaed by HARPG0. But all mistakes are mine.
> 
> The stories are not in chronological order as the series is written as snapshots over the course of many years, though it is part of an overall storyline - if you prefer to read it in chronological order you can find the list in the [series notes](http://archiveofourown.org/series/5702)

“Wolf,” Yuuri pleaded trying to stop things from spiralling out of control.

“He is _your_ husband. You should deal with him,” Wolfram said standing voice low but full of venom.

The third person in the room was sitting upright at the table. Back ramrod straight, and still, so very still, his face revealing no emotion at all. Yuuri had a feeling he was the only one aware of how close Murata was to open anger, and it worried him. He hadn’t seen his friend like this for a long time, and never directed at them. The Sage was almost always impervious to the anger of others, and often amused, particularly when Wolfram was annoyed.

This time, Yuuri had no way of knowing how Murata was going to react and Wolfram was too overwrought to pick up on that dark aura, even if he had bothered to look in Murata’s direction.

“I have explained myself,” Murata spoke slowly. “I do not know what more you want of me.”

Wolfram’s face was red as he said, voice rising, his hands clinging to the back of the chair he had abandoned. “I _would_ have you not disgrace the king. I _would_ have you not behave like a lecher. You are bound to him in marriage, by his desire and consent, by the approval of the aristocrats, and by my _blessing_ as consort. What you do reflects on _His Majesty_!”

“Reflects on ‘His Majesty’,” Murata repeated, his hands clasped in front of him. His voice was low and dangerous as he looked at Wolfram in outward calm. Murata’s controlled anger was jarring to Yuuri’s nerves.

“Murata, can’t we just-“

“ _No_ , Yuuri. _Let_ him explain himself,” Wolf cut in.

“Why should I?” Murata’s voice was controlled. Civility covering anger like velvet over cold marble. “You said I am Yuuri’s husband only.” Wolfram flinched slightly at that. “I need not have to answer to you, Bielefeld.” With no name or title, it was a deliberate insult. Wolfram’s eyes narrowed and he inhaled, readying himself to respond.

“ _Stop this_!” Yuuri roared, not able to watch his two lovers tear strips off each other.

There was silence for a moment and then Wolfram said, low and angry, looking only at Yuuri, purposefully ignoring Murata’s presence. “ _He_ is right. There is nothing I need know. But as prince consort,” Wolfram thumped his hand on his chest, “I do not want him to share our bed any longer. He has his chambers as _second_ husband. Let him use it. I want to hear nothing more on this.”

Wolfram pulled the golden ring off his finger and dropped it onto the table with a clink, turned and strode through doors to the outer chamber, slamming the door behind him. There was the smell of burning. The elegantly engraved chair back had scorch marks on them in the perfect print of two hands.

“Murata…” he began, not knowing what to say. His own hurt was returning. The Maou’s sense of possessiveness prowled in the back of his mind. The only thing holding the anger back was his self-will.

Wolfram’s initial anger had sidetracked him, which was a blessing considering his agitated state of mind.

“I think I should go back to the temple for a while.” Murata stood up and started straightening the papers he had spread out when he was confronted, placing them carefully in his leather document holder. He paused, as if gathering his thoughts and then took a deep breath before looking up at Yuuri with honest eyes. “I did not do anything to betray you.”

Yuuri shook his head and tried to keep his voice calm, though he was sure he failed somewhat.

“Wolfram wouldn’t exaggerate what he saw. Your actions hurt him.” It hurt me.

Murata lowered his head and rubbed his ring slowly and said with a soft, even voice. “It’s what I had to do. It was nothing more than that.”

Yuuri smacked the table with his open palm and he literally growled with frustration. “ _Kissing_ a foreign envoy in your private offices, Murata…that’s beyond-” Yuuri closed his mouth abruptly, a muscle jumped in his jaw and he pushed his anger down with difficulty. It was hard enough dealing with the Maou without losing his own temper. He lowered his voice and spoke as evenly as he could, "That's something you shouldn’t _have_ to do, _ever_." _You are mine, you are Wolfram's. None other should touch you_.

"He had information." Murata shrugged unemotionally. "He was attracted to me. It was the easiest way to get what I needed, what was necessary."

"And how far would you have gone to get what you thought ‘necessary’?"

Murata’s cool disappeared. He opened his mouth and hesitated, not quite meeting his eyes. It was in that brief pause that pain exploded in Yuuri’s chest, almost physical. “I can’t say,” Murata admitted in a whisper.

“I’m your husband, Ken,” Yuuri said miserably. His eyes were stinging and in that moment of weakness the Maou pushed through instantly. “Thou art _mine_.” His voice turned deep and possessive. It was a truth that Yuuri could not admit to himself, never alone out loud except with the Maou.

Murata’s eyes widened briefly, imperceptibly. Yuuri was sure he could see the Maou in his features. His husband took a step back from him and, though his face was now carefully free of expression, there was now the faint scent of fear in the air with just a tinge of arousal. That mixture confused Yuuri and excited the Maou.

For a moment, with perfect clarity, he could see the Maou’s fervent desire. To take. To rip Murata’s clothing off. To throw him on the table. To claim what was his and to punish and make sure the Sage knew without any doubt _whom_ he belonged to. And, worst of all, that image, it excited Yuuri as well. In disgust, he shut the connection down as much as possible to his counterpart with a mental snap he could practically hear.

“Oh _Ken_.” Yuuri placed his head in his hands, and then put a hand out to seek comfort, or to give comfort. He couldn’t say. Yet, considering what he’d wanted a few seconds ago, it was a pretty screwed up gesture. He dropped his hand guiltily.

Murata stayed where he was, smiled at him sadly, and shook his head in apology. “I’m sorry. I should go.”

After that internal struggle, Yuuri was too exhausted to protest.

~***~

That night, Wolfram was quiet. They had their meal in the main dining hall with the others and there was little opportunity to talk.

It wouldn’t seem too unusual to the others at dinner that Murata was out; he often was, as was Wolfram when he went on patrols. Other than Greta, Yuuri was the only person in his family who spent long stretches at the castle. As the Demon King, having achieved peace and stability in the region, the days of frequent adventures on a whim were long gone. Aside from days where he had to sign stacks of paper, he was never bored. There was still plenty for him to see and do. His studies and sword practice kept him busy when he wasn’t meeting with various nobles and diplomats. He got to visit the other provinces a few times a year and the occasional odd diplomatic journey out of the kingdom...but he did miss the adventure and the freedom to run off on some quest with few questions asked. Some days, he missed it a lot.

Getting ready for bed, he silently watched as Wolfram changed into his nightgown. He could think of nothing to say, nothing that wouldn’t sound like silly platitudes. The burden of his position weighed heavily on his heart and he felt a little lonely. There was nobody he could talk to about this. It wasn’t right to burden his daughter. And Conrad, well, Murata’s failure felt like his failure and he was too ashamed to talk about such things to his godfather.

He had to solve this. Hopefully, way before Conrad could bring it up because Yuuri was sure his misery at dinner had not gone unobserved. Nothing much escaped the man’s notice.

With a sigh, Yuuri slid under the covers. He looked up at the ceiling above blankly. Wolf curled up on the other side, facing away from him. He just needed to convince Wolfram to talk to Murata, somehow. As impossible as that seemed, he knew that it would be a good start.

“I know you’ll forgive him. That’s your wimpy way. But I can’t,” Wolfram said breaking into his thoughts.

Yuuri closed his eyes wearily. He didn’t want his family broken like this.

“He loves you, Wolf.” That was a certainty Yuuri could hold onto. Murata’s feelings for both of them couldn’t be hidden. Not only did he know him well, (as much as he knew Wolfram) Yuuri’s heightened senses told him so. It had taken years learning what that gift meant, part of which was the ability to sense deceit. There was still so much more to learn, but he knew enough to know that simple truth.

Wolfram replied tersely, “A fact he had little care for when I found him giving that-that... _human…_ such liberties with his person. Being held against the desk as well as-” He broke off abruptly. “That love I can _do_ without.”

Wolfram’s frame was stiff, facing away from him. Yuuri dare not touch him like he wanted to. He swallowed more anger directed at Murata.

What could Yuuri say? It wasn’t up to him to make excuses for Ken. Wolf had not been satisfied with the Sage’s explanation and, if truth be told, nor had he. He knew that Murata was hiding some more information, in his strange indirect way. Even if Yuuri couldn’t begin to say how he knew, much less explain it to anyone.

Yes, Wolfram was right. He was wimpy. He had to fix this. That’s what Yuuri did, fix things.

Much later, he woke up in the early hours of the morning with Wolfram curled against him, his face buried under his arm. The blankets were kicked off and his legs were cold. He pulled the blankets around them carefully and placed Wolfram’s arm around him. The prince hardly stirred.

He thought of Murata sleeping in the temple alone. There would be nobody there to comfort his husband if he had nightmares. Yuuri wanted to go to him. But this was his bed, and he had Wolfram to think about.

He closed his eyes. Sleep took a long time to come. And, when it did, it was broken and restless.

~***~

Murata had never meant for the kiss to happen. Though, he wasn’t naïve as to think it wasn’t a possibility. He’d been flirting subtly with the foreign envoy for months now.

They were getting close, after almost two years of following leads with assistance from Yozak and his intelligence network. For his part, he’d been dropping hints about his own growing ‘dissatisfaction’ with the king. Yozak was certain that the envoy was involved in a plot against the crown. Quite an extensive one, too, even if no concrete evidence could be found thus far. Murata was quite keen to get Onyal to talk before it was too late to avert disaster.

Worryingly, the envoy’s furtive meetings with various merchants and a key advisor of one of the ten aristocrats was becoming far more frequent and his gut feeling was that they were running out of time. Most unfortunately for them, there was a level of deniability with Onyal’s meetings. Despite all the players in those meetings being earmarked as potential dissidents, there was a legitimate reason for them.

Naturally, Murata didn’t for one moment believe it was innocent. He did not believe in coincidence.

However, overall, it did puzzle him. Mazoku moved slowly. Two years was positively rushed for any decent plot. It didn’t make sense considering who he most suspected, but it would be stupid to ignore the signs.

There was no way to know where the attack would come from, or what form it would take. And, as powerful as the Maou was, Yuuri was still mortal and still so vulnerable while he was learning his abilities. He could still be killed. It would only take one stray arrow when he was preoccupied, or a suicidal explosion concocted from human-made weaponry perfected from the war.

Murata had to be on his guard. And the best form of protection, the best way to guard the demon king, was through knowledge. Onyal was their best bet, the weak link, _literally_ their only link. A foreigner who wasn’t overly familiar with who Murata was, or seemed to care.

And that was why the Emitian foreign envoy was in his office.

Yozak had found out quite a bit about his background. Thete Onyal was half-mazoku. Though that fact was known by only a handful of people. He’d been brought up in the tiny archipelago of Emitis, a human nation which had escaped much notice by most of the big players. It was too small to be a threat, no mining and was of little strategic interest to anyone other than fishermen or jewellers who liked the bluish pearls which were found in the shallow waters.

He’d been raised by a reasonably wealthy cousin due to the tragic death of his parents in a boating accident. His mother was an exile, driven out of Shin Makoku during the war years for daring to love a human – sadly common for that period of time.

On the whole, Onyal wasn’t bad on the eye, a tall man with rich, reddish-brown hair and striking hazel eyes. A few years ago, Murata would have considered bedding such a one.

“I saw you weren’t at the Emerald Blossom Ball,” Onyal said. Murata leaned against the desk and regarded the man with a smirk, a deliberate coy tilt of his head.

“No, as second husband,” he put a bit of derision into those words. “I wasn’t considered as a suitable invite.” Honestly, Murata thought, there was no event he cared less for. Wolfram had even tried his best to get out of it. The ball was the biggest event in the court calendar and would be the last major one before the short-term move to Voltaire. At least half of the great Aristocratic heads had attended.

“Not even as Great Sage?” Onyal asked. “They show a great disregard for your position.” You have absolutely _no_ idea, Murata thought contemptuously. It was almost painful how stupid this man was. His professional pride was hurting to know the enemy was employing such an incompetent. But he kept those thoughts carefully concealed.

“The king is smitten with his pretty prince,” Murata replied. “I must admit, though, he has his talents,” he gave a lewd smile and looked up at the envoy through his eyelashes. He was sure that Onyal would have heard enough about the rumours of his association with the prince before he married the demon king. Though, considering how ill-informed he was in other matters, who knew? “I thought he’d tire of him eventually, and come around to…my ways, but Wolfram is an amusing thing. Quite tireless.” Murata scratched his neck, drawing attention to the one button he’d opened and made his eyes large. Too easy, the man was watching him with obvious interest.

Murata knew exactly what his appearance could do.

By the standards of the world he was born into, he wasn’t beautiful. In a world where there were plenty of mazoku with Wolfram’s beauty, not even close. He’d always been no more than average in Japan, long hair aside. Not that that it had ever bothered him, for words and confidence worked better with seduction and he always made a game of it. He didn’t need any witty foreplay in this kingdom. His features were exotic, unusual and he’d never been lacking in offers.

It had taken a little getting used to at first, plenty had changed in Shin Makoku since his first lifetime when his features had been seen as a curse. At times, his black hair and eyes generated a bit of creepy fetishistic interest – he’d learnt to avoid those types earlier on, before he had married.

“Like his mother, heh?” Onyal replied after a beat, referring to Wolfram.

“Not overly burdened by thought, no,” Murata lied smoothly, “And easily led by his brothers.”

Onyal moved forward and caressed his hair, and he allowed it. “Such a shame, to overlook your beauty and intelligence.” The man was clever, but not bright. The trick was to make him think he was in control, to make him think he was smarter.

“It is true that I’m disappointed a little in how things are. But it will surely change. I would hope for your support after that?” Murata asked. Onyal gave him a lecherous gaze. He knew what was coming next. So be it, a bit of a kiss and tickle. Not too much if he could help it. Then he would dangle a carrot for a future liaison to loosen that tongue.

He wished he could have said afterwards, with honesty, that he had been thinking of Yuuri and Wolfram in that moment. That he’d been disgusted with what he had to do. But when Murata played his roles, he played it to perfection. He was a method actor. All he could think of at that time was the game. He needed to get Onyal to give him enough information to win.

He had initially taken on this opportunity, this role, to protect Yuuri. But, once he was performing, that concern was discarded. He couldn’t afford to worry about such things. He could not, would not, allow himself to fail.

Besides, the goal had become everything. Winning and scheming, falling easily into his last life as Christine was quite stimulating. Christine would run circles around this man.

“I would be happy to introduce you to people that would give you the regard you deserve,” Onyal said against his neck and then they were kissing.

At the corner of his eye there was movement, blond features. Surprised, he pushed himself away from the envoy. Wolfram was at the door, watching in shock with face empty of colour.

Fortunately, Onyal was facing away and had not seen anything.

Before Murata could react Prince Wolfram was gone, the door slamming behind him with a bang.

Onyal jumped.

“It was just a servant,” Murata told Onyal offhandedly and gave the envoy a reassuring smile. “One I trust.”

Murata took that opportunity to distance himself. Onyal was being much more persistent than he’d anticipated. Murata’s mind was whirling and it was with some effort he pushed the image of Wolfram’s shocked face from his mind. He was close to his goal and he couldn't let himself be distracted.

“Unfortunately, I have something I need to attend to now.” He pulled himself further away with apparent reluctance and gave Onyal an apologetic look and smiled sweetly. “But I’m looking forward to seeing you again, perhaps later?”

~***~

  
“Later” was only a few hours after his quarrel with Bielefeld and Shibuya.

Murata wasn’t in his best mood when Onyal rolled up to the Temple without any notice.

He may not have been able to disguise his irritation as well as he normally did. Not that it mattered. The envoy was blinded by his desire.

An hour later, it was done with only a few flattering words, and quite a bit of skill in deflecting some physical attention other than a kiss. (This time, he wasn’t able to forget about Yuuri and Wolfram. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.)

Still, the disagreeable task was necessary, and he got what he needed.
    
    
     _“And how far would you have gone...”_

“As much as it takes to make sure you are protected, Shibuya,” he murmured to the empty room.

He had gained the time and some idea of Onyal’s methods. Though, unfortunately, some of the detail was lacking. He made a promise of his backing for the ‘interested party’ which Onyal worked ‘with’ even if Murata thought that was a delusion. The man was clearly a dupe.

Murata had five days to prepare.

He sat at his desk for a few moments thinking. Onyal’s plan seemed like a terribly unoriginal scheme, an anti-climax. Doomed to failure. But still, without prior warning, it could have hurt mazoku bystanders. He rubbed his eyes wearily and then sent for Yozak. At least, he’d have time to bathe and scrub Onyal’s taint from his skin before the spy arrived.

~***~

It was down the corridor from the east garden square that he heard Wolfram’s outburst.

“There is little point in trying to defend _your_ friend.” Wolfram’s voice was full of haughty disdain.

Yuuri froze. From where he was standing, he could just see the back of distinctive ginger hair. The spy was talking to Wolfram under a flowery covered pergola.

“And _your_ lover,” came back Yozak’s quiet reply. He was sure only his heightened hearing would have been able to pick it up. Without thinking, he positioned himself behind a marble column which would hide him from their view. He knew if he was discovered the conversation would end and along with it any chance of finding out what Murata was up to.

Maybe Yozak would tell Wolfram.

The prince ignored Yozak’s comment and lowered his voice so he was speaking as quietly as the spy. “If he wanted to defend the Demon King, he should take up the sword like an honest warrior.” It was only three days since Wolfram had tossed the gold ring onto their table, rejecting Murata. Wolfram had had little time to cool down.

Yozak snorted. “There is more than one way to defend the king, Your Highness.” Yozak’s use of his title was just a bit mocking and Yuuri shook his head. That wasn’t going to go down well; he could imagine Wolf’s face going red and his eyes flashing with constrained fury. “And not all enemies are going to just _ride up_ to the castle gate and politely ask to challenge the Demon King in fair combat.”

“No, instead they will offer to _fuck_ the king’s husband.”

Yuuri placed his hand over his mouth in shock. Wolf used words to hurt thoughtlessly when he was afraid and angry and Yozak’s casual approach typically irritated Wolfram, even on a good day. So he wasn’t really that surprised, saddened yes, but not surprised, by what Wolfram said next. “Is that what all of your squad does to gain information? Fling themselves onto any warm body just like-“ The prince’s voice stopped abruptly. Yuuri supposed it was the sudden shame of what he was about to say, because Yozak’s look would not have stopped Wolf when he was in a fury.

Yozak barked a short laugh and then responded tightly. “I’m sorry, prince, that I wasted your time. So, I’ll spare you the details. I only wanted you to know that His Eminence did what he did because he loves the king and he loves you. But, at times like this, I can’t imagine _why_.”

He could hear Yozak coming towards where he stood and he dashed to the other side of the column so he was awkwardly standings against a tall, prickly shrub. It wasn’t the best hiding spot and, if Yozak was to look, he’d be found easily. Yuuri held his breath as the spymaster walked by. His body sagged in relief as he kept moving without pause but then seized up again when Yozak stopped. The spy had great, almost supernatural instincts.

Yuuri thought he’d be discovered when the rattling sound of the gardener’s cart came to him. In the next instant, the gardener appeared. It seemed to ease Yozak’s suspicions and he nodded pleasantly as the bulky man trundled by.

He sneaked out, brushing leaves off him when Yozak had turned the corner and went back in the garden hoping to catch Wolfram. The place was empty with only a few songbirds chirping in the trees. The marble bench under the pergola looked lonely. Wolf must have stormed off in the other direction.

He sat down on the bench for a moment and looked at his hands. He had to talk to Murata again.

But he never did find the opportunity. Yuuri had to find out the hard way.

~***~

Wolfram was not meant to attend the meeting. The whole plan had been implemented so that no full mazoku would be present– Yozak had arranged it that Lord von Voltaire would be called away and Lord von Christ already had a prior appointment.

 _“I’ve set up a meeting with the Maou in five days regarding fishing rights.”_

Wolfram had never shown any interest in recurring meetings with diplomats and he knew that he was scheduled to be doing drills with Sir Wagner and his squad. And considering that Wolfram had all but washed his hands of him, he never considered that Wolfram would bother to attend, most especially with Onyal’s presence.

 _“A few of my human friends will be with me.”_

He’d misjudged the situation. He’d misjudged Wolfram.

Shibuya could not be harmed with esoteric stones. That knowledge had been guarded carefully amongst a few of them for just such a scenario. Better for the enemy to think the gems would work and show their hand in failure. This was why Murata was willing to risk this operation without Shibuya’s knowledge. The Maou couldn’t be hurt, but Wolfram could be.

More importantly, Yuuri was hopeless when it came to subterfuge.

Yet, now that the consort had arrived, and late at that, he could not come up with any legitimate diversions to delay Onyal’s attack, not without raising suspicion. It would jeopardise the operation.

 _“I’ve managed to get my hands on some esoteric stones.”_

From across the room, Yozak scratched his chin, the signal for abort. If they arrested Onyal now, they could charge him with sedition. It was a life sentence to carry esoteric stones in the kingdom, let alone to carry them in the presence of the Maou within the castle. Such an act would be a clear intention of harm. Onyal would go down, but it would be unlikely the others would be found guilty and the chance to capture the culprits and find out who was behind this would be lost. Murata had to make a hard decision.

Imperceptibly, he shook his head. He would proceed. Weighing up the benefits to the kingdom, it was a calculated risk. He couldn’t allow his feelings to get in the way of the greater good. Too much was riding on this.

 _“We’ll use the stones to weaken him, and my associates will overpower his bodyguard and any other half-breed guards.”_

He’d have to shield Wolfram from harm himself.

After lengthy introductions, he sat himself next to Wolfram. The prince ignored him. Wolfram crossed his arms and fixed Onyal with barely concealed hostility. Brilliant! Murata thought worriedly. This was why Wolfram was discouraged from attending delicate diplomatic meetings (not that he needed to be, Wolfram hated them). The Prince Consort could never hide his feelings regarding humans, often haughty suspicion. And he wasn’t any better when it came to talking to certain factions of the Aristocracy.

Onyal paid Wolfram no heed. And, in a matter of moments, it mattered little.

The attack happened fast. Onyal was giving Shibuya a bland smile when he stood up suddenly and pulled a tube from his coat, shaped a little like an Earth rifle but far more slender. For a mazoku, it would look more like the low level projectiles of the sort used to shoot colourful paper and powders into the air for celebrations.

 _“We’ll bar the doors. And then you can send word that the king is dead. With your primary support, there will be little any of the royalist nobles can do.”_

Even being on his guard, understanding came slowly. He’d underestimated Onyal. He thought he would have simply thrown the stone across the table. Such attacks had worked well against ordinary mazoku before and he’d hardly credit the envoy with anything more creative. This was a far more deadly assault.

 _“And, then, I’ll introduce you to my sponsor. He’s very keen to have you as a friend and ally in the new leadership. I’ll take care of the attack. And then you can help remake the country.”_

 _“It sounds...interesting. However, I’m curious? What’s in it for you? You aren’t mazoku and this isn’t your homeland.”_

 _“I consider it my home. It was my mother’s. She was forced into exile because of the war against the humans. Most of her kin murdered by order of the former Maou.”_

 _“So you want revenge?”_

 _“No. I want to take back my mother’s estates. That’s the reward for helping eliminate the Maou. She told me about her home when I was young. She was always so sad that I’d never see it, so sad that she couldn’t return. Now, I can make up for that. I’ll regain what is rightfully mine and lay her to rest where she grew up.”_

With a startling thump, the air was filled with powdery shards of esoteric stones. It was deadly shrapnel. Even a small knick could kill a mazoku if it got into their bloodstream.

The Maou was immune to the fatal poisons of the stones and he could react freakishly fast.

But Wolfram had neither warning nor immunity, or god-like reflexes. It was Murata’s abrupt spike of fear, that, in retrospect, saved him. A second later, he had flung himself in front of the bewildered prince, using his weight to drag him safely under the table. He’d had no time to set up a shield and if it wasn’t for Yuuri-Maou, who had, in a rapid fluid motion created one above their heads then a rain of esoteric shards would have fallen on Wolfram.

Wolfram struggled against him. “Murata. What are-” With a cry of pain he collapsed against him.

The tiny stones were now scattered across the room, having rebounded safely off the shield and onto the carpet but, inevitably, they were having an effect. Murata didn’t bother to respond, instead making soothing noises as the prince moaned in pain. He moved Wolfram on his side gently so he wouldn’t choke if he got sick and rubbed his back.

With any luck, such a short exposure would give the prince nothing more than a headache, nausea, and a day or so of weakness.

There was a loud crack followed by the sounds of garbled terror from Onyal’s group. He didn’t want to leave Wolfram until the danger had passed and the assassins had been restrained. They were safer where they were.

"Bind them," was Conrad's curt command. It sounded like nobody else had been harmed.

There was silence, only broken by pained whimpering from others and the Maou spoke. His voice was like thunder:

"You would come onto my lands with these accursed objects which would harm my people. You are a guest in this place. You were invited in good faith to bring harmony among our lands. Yet, you would betray that honourable trust and go against the principles of justice. Not only that, you would harm one of my mates and would dare touch what is mine."

Certain that the immediate danger was past he left Wolfram on his side, eyes closed and trembling. He popped his head out above the table to see the human traitors lined up facing the wall, their arms tied behind their back. The Maou, Yuuri-Maou, was glowing as he held Onyal up high above him against a pillar. The envoy’s heels kicked the ground as the Maou held his neck and slowly squeezed. Onyal’s face was red, terror in his eyes as he tried to pry the hands from his throat futilely.

"You would touch what is mine?" Yuuri-Maou repeated again, voice still menacing. From this angle, Murata could see part of a cold smile on his face. The eyes of the Maou would have looked frightening for the envoy. "That I cannot forgive.”

"Yuuri!" He said, voice raised only enough to be heard. He tried his best to keep his voice calm while his heart was hammering. "We need him alive."

Yuuri had never killed. It was against his moral code and Murata did not want him to break it. Murata looked at the envoy dispassionately. As much as he felt pity for his situation, he'd kill Thete Onyal without thought if necessary. But he couldn’t allow this to be on Yuuri's conscience. Besides, pragmatically, they did need him alive.

After a long, tense uncertain minute, the Maou's glow disappeared and Onyal was dropped on the ground, gasping for breath.

Without any further regard, Yuuri, Yuuri _now_ \-- although his eyes were still wild--turned to him.

"Wolfram?" Yuuri asked him tersely.

"The stones are making him ill. He needs to be taken from the room and checked in with Gisela."

Ignoring everything in the room, Yuuri went to Wolfram, taking him out from under the table, lifting him and then cradling him against his chest like a baby. Wolfram’s head lolled and he moaned in pain. Stepping forward, Murata touched Wolfram's forehead lightly and focused his senses. "He should be fine. Get him away from the stones." He held Wolfram's hand gently and then let go.

Yuuri gave him a hard look, nodded, and said flatly as he gestured with his chin to the traitors, "Deal with them. We’ll talk about this later."

Murata nodded and let them leave. His stomach twisted into a cold knot and he took a steadying breath. He was the Great Sage and he had a job to do.

He regarded Yozak and Conrad and their men guarding the traitors.

It was time to clean up the mess.

~***~

  
After a few hours of interrogation and tracking down a few leads, there was little more Murata could do that day. The suspects were safely put away in the dungeons. However, so far, it looked like those in Onyal’s party were ignorant of the plot. This made things far more difficult.

That wasn’t all. He had a horrible, sinking suspicion that the attack had been some type of test. What for, he couldn’t say. But, if his fears were correct-and he hoped they weren’t, then it had been _them_ who had failed. Dupe Onyal certainly was, a pathetic fool, but so was he and the thought made him sick. Not to mention the guilt for endangering one who he loved in such a botched job.

Whatever the case, there would be much work over the coming days and weeks, coming up with fitting punishment, dealing with the repercussions, a more methodical...interrogation. But he would think of that later.

He went to their rooms. Gisela had discharged Wolfram after a check up, with strict instructions for bed rest.

The bedchamber was dark. The curtains drawn tightly. He’d only been sleeping at the temple for a little less than a week, but, already, being here evoked strong emotion. In the middle of the bed lay his lovers. Yuuri sitting up against the headboard cradling Wolfram's head on his lap, softly stroking his long hair which was carded out along the coverlet like rivulets of gold. Wolfram’s arm was curled around Yuuri’s legs, sleeping peacefully.

"Gisela gave him sleeping potion," Shibuya said, his focus still on Wolfram as he continued to stroke, the rhythm hypnotic.

Murata nodded. This he knew. He tentatively sat on the divan next to the bed. There was silence for a while. He thought it best to wait for Yuuri to speak first.

"I'm so angry at you," Yuuri said, his hands stilling with a weary sigh.

"Do you want a divorce, Yuuri?" It was the wisest decision. Their ways of looking at the world were different. Both of them were powerful in this world and had to work together, an intimate relationship on top of that was too fraught. He didn't even know why he thought it would work. A ridiculous case of idealism helped along by hormones most likely.

He watched as Yuuri’s hand gently caressed long golden tresses.

Then, there was Wolfram. The one who would be caught in the middle, who always would be in this relationship due to his lesser status. In this relationship, Wolfram had more standing than he. But, overall in Shin Makoku, Murata easily outranked him. There were so many things that could go wrong with the prince stuck in the middle.

Silently, he damned Shin Makoku and their rigid structures, but it was beyond him to fix that. Even though Yuuri had done a lot so far overcoming inequality there were fundamentals that couldn’t be beaten. At least not by him, not in the time he had. Murata had much more faith that Shibuya would change the status-quo if he was given the time.

He did love them both, so very much. But letting go might be easiest for everyone.

"No, I don't want a divorce, Ken," Yuuri said softly. "I don’t even think Wolf wants that," he said as he brushed his thumb gently along Wolfram's cheek. Wolfram did not stir. Looking up at Murata he said, "I want you to talk to us, to tell us what is going on, to trust us. I smelt your fear.” Yuuri continued and pierced him with a dark look, “I should have known. I could smell his dishonesty and your worry but I thought that was because of what he did...with you.” Yuuri scowled. “But then your fear was overwhelming, impossible to ignore and the Maou took over. I’m still learning so he didn’t hesitate to shove me aside. It was...disturbing, but I managed to take back some control in the end.”

“Yuuri...I’m...” he trailed off. What could he possibly say? He’d screwed up and it was the Maou who had saved them, but at the expense of both Wolfram’s health and Yuuri’s mind. He couldn’t begin to imagine how terrifying this experience would have been to Shibuya, to have his consciousness pushed aside suddenly and his body taken over. It had been well over ten years since that had happened, since Shibuya had grown and seemed to reach equilibrium with the Maou.

Yuuri shrugged and gave him a small reassuring smile. “It’s okay. If it wasn’t for his quick reaction, I don’t know what would have happened. Wolfram could have been hurt. He could have been-“ He broke off suddenly and closed his eyes, before continuing to stroke the blond hair. “You should have told me, Ken.”

He tried to explain. "There are things I do...it's best you don't know. It’s...difficult." It was a clumsy excuse and not nearly good enough. “I’m sorry.”

The king shook his head and said. "You weren’t afraid for yourself when it happened. I know you didn’t mean to get Wolf involved and that’s why...” Yuuri paused. “I'm not naive anymore, Murata. I can guess the things you do. Gwendal tells me things. You don't need to protect me." Yuuri smiled grimly and then touched his fingers to his forehead. "And I have an ancient spirit in my soul and mind whispering thoughts and images into my head. I know you better than you believe, Murata. I, too, have memories that don't belong to me."

Yuuri had said such cryptic remarks before, about the Maou and his memories. It was one of the things he had said on the first night they were together three years before.
    
    
     _“What I feel of him is what I see in you.”_

But, those memories did belong to Murata. He had inherited it with his soul. He was living with the consequences of all his choices and the weight was cruel. Yet, bear with it he had to.

"I'm afraid for you both." That was a difficult thing to admit. The kingdom could not lose the Maou, the Maou could not lose Wolfram - and Murata? He couldn't lose either of them. The Sage would continue if they were lost, doing what had to be done to keep the kingdom safe. But, Murata Ken would be as good as dead. The thought terrified him. It would be like living half a life.

Yuuri sighed and said his voice timeworn and so different from the boy he once knew, "Mortals are so fragile." He touched Wolfram's brow reverently. "You are not the only one afraid, beloved. Fear, I like little." Murata could tell the Maou was there, once more merging with his friend. Then, the timbre of Yuuri's voice changed, softer. "Sometimes, I miss simply being Yuuri," his voice was wistful, and he looked up at Murata and then patted the other side of his legs. "Come sleep. We are still angry, but I want you here by my side."

Murata nodded and then pulled his boots off and crawled across the soft mattress. He curled up against Yuuri's side, and placed one hand on Wolfram's. He was so very tired. Some days, his soul’s age wore him down. Sometimes, it became almost intolerable.
    
    
     _Sometimes, I miss simply being Yuuri._

And sometimes, Shibuya, he thought sadly, _I miss never having been given the chance to be simply Ken_.

A gentle hand touched his head and it soothed him. "Sleep, you are safe. I would have no harm come to either of you."

Murata let go and slept.

~***~


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Wolfram noticed upon waking was a familiar scent surrounding him. A scent he associated with home, along with a hand resting gently on his waist. He snuggled closer to the source of that comfort.

Eventually, fuller wakefulness came to him as well as the realisation that he was curled up against Murata.

"You should not be here," he rasped drowsily trying to sound cross. His body was exhausted. The hours of sleep had helped little to dispel the effect of the vile stones. Despite that, he didn’t move, didn’t want to.

Murata hummed agreement and began to move away. Without volition, his hand came up and grabbed Murata and dark eyes gave him a questioning look.

Wolfram flinched away from those eyes and looked away. "I am a fool," he said to the room. A great fool for allowing his heart to be hurt again. He breathed in and put his arms around Murata, resting his cheek on one shoulder. An arm held him lightly.

"I am sorry," Murata whispered into his hair.

"Do not say that,” Wolfram said resignedly. “Say you will not do it again. Say you will not philander. Say you are only ours. Say you will trust us with your schemes." Yuuri had explained to him what had happened, how Murata had set up Onyal to fail using Yuuri as bait. It was all a blur for him. The stones had a way of messing with memories as well as the body. It was a cowardly, underhanded attack.

Murata made a strange choking laugh. "It’s not something I _can_ do again. I’m sure everyone knows where my loyalty lies now." Wolfram pushed himself away, angry. “I did it to protect you both. I don’t expect you would understand.” Murata’s voice wasn’t defensive like Wolfram had expected, just tired. His voice was hollow, changing from the cynical half-laugh from before.

Wolfram lay on his back and closed his eyes, placing his hand to his forehead. “I do not,” he agreed. “There is so much I don’t understand with you. Yuuri can be confusing and a few of his impractical ideals annoy me, but he’s usually easy to read. You, _you_ are so difficult. Often, I don’t understand what you are thinking or the things you do.”

“Do you want to know, Wolfram?” Murata asked and there was a challenging tone in that question. Wolfram looked at those eyes, only a touch lighter shading than Yuuri’s. There was a glimmer of darkness there that had nothing to do with colouring. Yuuri’s eyes, he thought, could be so light and open in comparison.

“I want to know what you think. I want to know your feelings,” Wolfram answered keeping his gaze steadily on the Sage. He loved this man, and he honoured the Sage. Even though, often, he was covered by shadows and Wolfram was afraid to pierce the darkness. In this, he was bereft of courage, a coward, and he was sure that Murata would have noted that omission. Worst yet, Murata would allow him this weakness, indulged it, even. It was as if he was an innocent child needing protection. He could feel it in the way that his hair was brushed aside, and his brow kissed gently.

Wolfram frowned, angry frustration building within him and he balled his fingers.

“Would you hold me?” Murata asked abruptly, sounding lost. There was profound sadness there. The anger dissipated and his fingers uncurled. Wolfram could no more deny him that request than he could Yuuri. He placed one arm around Murata’s waist.

He was afraid to lose Murata’s love and the Great Sage’s regard. He should ignore that fear. It would be cowardly to allow this same man into his heart to hurt him again, more weakness, more stupidity. Cowardice again and again _and again_. How pitiable he had become.

The image of Murata kissing that human envoy came into his mind. He closed his eyes. The betrayal made him sick to his stomach.

His feelings were torn in so many directions. How could he overlook the Great Sage’s wishes? But this was still Murata. Yuuri was Yuuri, king or no, Maou notwithstanding. But Murata...Murata was...honestly Wolfram didn’t know sometimes and his head hurt too much to puzzle it out. In this confused whirlwind, he held onto the one truth that was unchanging -- his pride.

“I am a fool,” he told Murata once again.

“You aren’t the only one, prince,” Murata said, kissing his hand and Wolfram restrained himself from moving away. “You want to know my thoughts and feelings.” Murata sighed deeply. “At the moment, I am afraid. I am afraid for you both. I am always afraid for your lives, but now I’m afraid...about us. I am afraid that you will withdraw your blessing. I am afraid that this...rift we are having… is tearing Shibuya apart and you as well. If it comes to a choice, I know who Yuuri would choose and I don’t blame him. I know exactly who you would choose, and I understand. I feel like I should leave you both. I have offered, but Yuuri has refused and I’m too afraid to push the point since I love you both so much. I’m afraid of being alone.”

The confession was far more than he expected, too much for his tired mind to understand and far too much for his raw heart. He felt a stinging in his eyes.

“You hurt us.”

“I know.”

“Yuuri won’t choose,” Wolfram said. “Once, I would have expected he put me first, above everyone always, but not anymore. He wouldn’t choose. Which is why I did not remove my blessing. I couldn’t do that to him no matter how angry I was at you. And as for my loyalties, Murata...Yuuri is the Maou.”

“I understand,” Murata said softly. And Wolfram was sure he did, but he had to continue.

“He is the Demon King. I will choose him above all else, forever.” He felt tears down his face. Murata’s kindness as he wiped them away gently, hurt him even more. “You are the Great Sage, but Yuuri is the Maou. I am your husband, but I am a soldier and noble and he is who I am bound to.” He felt even more wretched and confused as Murata rubbed his shoulder in comfort. “But this is not a time where that choice is needed.”

He curled up even closer to Murata, and gladly allowed himself to be pulled close, he could feel Murata’s heartbeat against his cheek.

After several long minutes, Murata spoke. His words were even, voice devoid of any emotion. “Do you want me back here, Wolfram?” Wolfram wanting Murata sharing their bed once more, sharing Yuuri as one.

_No-yes. I don’t know._

“It isn’t simple, this arrangement.”

“No it’s not.” Murata agreed. “It’s not easy or simple when it’s only two people, with three...well... And all three of us are stubborn and difficult in our own ways.” He closed his eyes as Murata rubbed his cheek with one thumb and he settled one leg over Murata’s hip. It felt good, this connection. Wolfram wished it didn’t.

He needed to pull away. To work this out alone and stop this cowardice.

“I think I need time, Murata,” he said after a long pause. “Loyalty and fidelity are everything to me. I have seen what that lack did to my mother, and I vowed I would not let anyone treat me so carelessly. I won’t stop Yuuri from going to you and...I still love you. Yet, I cannot accept your affections so easily after what you did. For this to work, you will need to earn my trust all over again and the cost won’t be light and I can offer no guarantee.”

He had turned away the Great Sage but, at least, he had regained his pride.

Murata sighed heavily and held him even tighter. He spoke slowly in a tone which hurt Wolfram’s heart. If only pride could take away that hurt. “Can I have until noon here with you, at least?”

In answer he kissed the Sage on the brow. There was no sleep as the shadows shifted and he was held or any words when Murata finally left.

~***~

It didn’t take long for official correspondence to arrive from the High Chief of Emitis. The letter was replete with apologies and adamantly claiming they had no part in the plot against King Yuuri Shibuya and fervently hoped that Shin Makoku would continue relations with them. A new envoy was to be despatched straight away pending Shin Makoku’s accord.

Lord von Voltaire handed the letter over to Murata with distaste and said flatly, “Do you believe them?”

“Yes, there is no evidence to suggest they had any doing in it. They would have everything to lose and nothing to gain in this act. We do buy most of their produce.”

Voltaire nodded. “But the envoy was not working alone.”

“No.”

“So, who do we think he was working for?” Shibuya asked. He’d remained entirely silent through this exchange whilst sitting on the other side of the table. Wolfram was absent.

Murata had suspicions, but it was of no use without proof.

He shrugged and gave Yuuri a tired smile. “That’s what we’re still trying to work out.”

~***~

For a few years now, Shibuya had been pushing to move court occasionally to the provincial capitals.

Court was the time of year where the aristocrats, courtiers, and minor nobles gathered for counsel and voted on common laws. More importantly, it involved networking between the different factions of the ten aristocratic houses (and the cause of many headaches for the chancellor and his assistant.) It also attracted merchants, foreign envoys, and commoners petitioning the king for help.

Finally, after some negotiation, the first provincial court was planned for Voltaire – the safest province for the scheme’s debut. If things went well, Yuuri was hoping to make it a once a ten year event (almost too frequent for the slow-moving mazoku).

Yuuri wanted to reach out more to the common people. Every year, desperate commoners would travel days, weeks even, to the capital when court was on to appeal to the Demon King with problems that their local lords were unable or unwilling to help them with. Those poorer mazoku and humans who made it that far were the lucky few. Most could never afford such a journey.

Murata had seen directly how open Shibuya was with the commoners. He’d seen him talk to a farmer who needed help with irrigation and a poor human widow who needed assistance with providing education for her children. The king always made time for those needing help and he always tried his best to give it. It made some aristocrats nervous. Yuuri was popular with the people and that popularity could not be discounted.

Holding court in the other provinces was a good idea and had Murata’s support. Though, personally, he couldn’t think of a worse time to lose Yuuri and Wolfram. Nevertheless, he was happy for Yuuri in this endeavour. The assassination attempt (and their estrangement) would not stop Shibuya.

Murata would be acting regent with duties in the capital with Lord von Christ’ assistance. Easy work, considering almost everybody would be at Voltaire for court. Even Yozak was going, had left two days ago far less conspicuously to prepare the way.

The pennants fluttered against the blue sky merrily. In the cobbled courtyard, the morning sun shone brightly above them, promising a warm, sunny day. Summer had begun.

Murata stood with the farewell party above on the front entrance, which included Lord von Christ, Greta, and her little boy. He was never fond of public farewells, or even greetings, a ritual-practice amongst the aristocrats. But before, at least, he had the memories of their private farewells before the public goodbyes to make it easier, with Yuuri’s impish grin and a shadow of a smile in Wolfram’s careful performance.

It didn’t help that he had to listen to Lord von Christ’s usual theatrics as he bewailed the temporary loss of the man he worshipped and the man he loved. It was only three months, such a short time.

Such a long time.

Shibuya’s entourage was extensive, possibly the largest so far in his reign. Foremost were nobles like the young Lord Delchias von Wincott as well as Lady Anissina’s older brother and head of the house of Karbelnikoff, Lord Densham with their attendant retinues, servants, advisors, and guards. Other nobles would meet them on the way, or arrive at Voltaire directly.

The entourage was well defended. There was Weller and his handpicked royal guard alongside Voltaire and Bielefeld’s squad.

All of Bielefeld’s men looked good on their horses; ramrod straight at attention in their impeccable blues. The dominant blond and light brown traits of Bielefeld province went well with their colours. There was obvious pride in their duty to serve their captain who was the Demon King’s Consort. Their status and responsibility had risen with their captain’s and they certainly knew it.

The handsome Vice-Captain, Sir Michael Wagner, was standing front of his men, holding the reins of Wolfram’s mare. Sir Wagner was doing his best to ignore the sneaky glances of a certain green haired healer. How the castle rumour mill had overlooked their obvious blossoming romance was beyond Murata. Perhaps they were too distracted by the relationship dramas of the king. He shut down that line of thought quickly and continued to scan Yuuri’s retinue, always alert for threats or interesting information.

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Lord von Christ addressed the king who was one step below them on the marble stairs, “the capital will be bereft… devoid of your presence bathing us with all with golden light.” A perfect tear trailed down one side of the counsellor’s face. Murata gritted his teeth, and, for a moment, he empathised with Lord von Voltaire who was standing behind Yuuri, and obviously discomfited by the display. Further down on her horse, Lady Anissina visibly rolled her eyes.

Not for the first time, he wondered how those two had become lovers. Then again, he often thought the same about the chancellor’s relationship with Lady Anissina. For someone who was so reserved, Voltaire had a knack of attracting dramatic personalities.

Speaking of dramatic personalities, Murata’s attention went to Wolfram. The Maou’s consort was pale and solemn looking. In this moment, Wolfram’s hair was exceptionally blond, almost white in the sunlight. His highset black collar and hair braided with a black ribbon threaded through only served to highlight his pale features. He was wearing his royal dress uniform which he only wore for formal outings with the demon king. The royal black stripes and knee high black boots, polished to perfection, were very striking, attractive, and wholly unsuitable for long trips. That was one ordeal he wouldn’t miss, the trip with an entourage would be a security nightmare, and so unbearably slow.

Wolfram took a few steps up to Greta and his solemn features brightened briefly when he was handed little Huber for a goodbye.

Until then, the boy had been hiding behind Greta’s skirt. Huber spent many hours with his grandfathers and Wolfram had always been a favourite from the instant he could focus his eyes. But the courtyard was full of strange people. It was a little too much for the three year old to handle.

“Are you going to say goodbye to Grandpapa and Grandad,” Greta asked him as the little boy buried his head in Wolfram’s shoulder shyly. Yuuri came over and kissed the soft baby hair and chuckled as the boy gave him a bashful smile before stuffing three fingers in his mouth. “Bye baby,” he heard Wolfram whisper before returning the child to his mother.

And then it was his turn.

“I’ll keep the capital and Greta’s family safe,” he murmured to Shibuya as his husband stepped up and pulled him into an unexpected bear hug. It wasn’t just the tight hug which made his chest constrict painfully. Just barely, he could hear Wolfram hiss at the Maou’s disregard for protocol with his flamboyant display. For a second, a surge of anger towards the prince shot through Murata, then shame at his annoyance. Wolfram had every right to be angry.

Standing back, Yuuri gave him a sad, wistful smile and said, “For the next two months, I entrust the running of castle business over to you, Murata.”

“Thank you, Shibuya.” He nodded and gave what he hoped to be a reassuring look, not only for the king’s sake, but for the courtyard full of spectators.

In rote, he placed his right hand out and Wolfram came forward, cradling his hand gently while leaning over and brushing his lips along his knuckle, neatly avoiding his ring. A memory of Wolfram doing this exact gesture six months before came to him. Back then, Wolfram had looked up at him with a wicked look in his eyes, the same look he’d given him when he was sucking him that night before. But, in the present, Wolfram took a step back and bowed slightly again, still not looking directly at him.

“Farewell, Your Eminence.” Wolfram said respectfully.

He inclined his head to the prince, a pleasant smile frozen on his lips. Next to him, facing away from the crowd, Yuuri frowned. Lord von Voltaire continued to look put upon and Sir Weller held a perfectly polite smile, his eyes darting from Wolfram, Yuuri, and then Murata.

Murata took one step forward, and with the one step height advantage afforded, he placed a hand on Yuuri’s head and said in a voice which resounded across the courtyard.

“I bring you Shinou’s blessing for an easy and auspicious journey for all who follow and support the Maou.”

He was in no mood for elaborate blessings, so he used the common tongue and kept it short. He did this for the king’s benefit and for those who cared about such things, for those who had faith. Murata could see it in the faces of those who looked up to him, taking his word for divine protection and giving them peace of mind. He envied them their innocence. He doubted Shinou was paying any attention and certainly cared even less.

As the retinue left through the main entrance gate, Shibuya pulled his horse up briefly, turned, and gave them a wave.

Lord von Christ continued weeping and little Huber sang ‘bye, bye’ in his childish voice.

When the courtyard was empty, Greta touched him on the shoulder. “Do you want some tea, Uncle?”

He gave Greta a relieved smile, grateful for the interruption to his grim thoughts. “That would be nice.”

~***~

A few hours later found Murata walking down the echoing corridor of the wing where his chambers lay. Tea was agreeable enough with little Huber happily chatting away to his wooden play blocks and a stuffed bearbee under the table.

They spoke about everyday things, the weather, the education of Greta’s eldest step-child in merchant business and the merits of Lady Anissina’s latest projects. He noticed Greta giving him concerned looks when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The rumours about his estrangement from Yuuri would have travelled around court at least twice now. Murata rarely spent long periods of time away from the castle when the Maou and his consort were in residence, even before the relationship had turned intimate.

He paused next to the Maou’s rooms.

There was no-one around other than a royal guard at the end of the hall, still like a statue. Three weeks ago, he’d spent his last afternoon with Wolfram in these rooms. His hand paused on the knob. He could go in for a little while. Murata thought about curling up on the soft, red sofa in the drawing room, and sleeping in the bed. The maids would have washed the bed linen but he could easily imagine Wolfram’s scent on the sheets.

He pulled his hand back. He wasn’t that much of a masochist. Murata walked the few more steps needed until he’d made it inside his own chambers. Closing the door, he leaned his head against the other side, faced the empty rooms and clenched his hands around the ring which he had placed around his neck on a chain.

A day after saying goodbye to Wolfram, he’d found the gold ring on his desk in a blue envelope, returned to him. Nobody truly knew the significance of that ring other than the three of them, but the fact that it appeared on Wolfram’s right hand just before he married the king and disappeared after the estrangement would surely have been noted.

The prince had avoided his eyes in the courtyard throughout the farewell and had not said a word to him, bar what etiquette required ever since Wolfram had asked him to leave their bed.

There was the possibility, he admitted brutally to himself, that he may never be forgiven. A possibility that Murata would never be allowed to tease Wolfram again, to talk to him about literature as they swam about in the ridiculously large bed on lazy mornings after Yuuri left for his daily runs. No more kisses or worshipful looks...or gentle love-making. It would be doubtful Murata could even retrieve the respect and friendliness they had from before they had become lovers.

He clenched his fingers around the ring tightly. Moreover, perhaps Shibuya would realise that he wanted none of those things, either.

Yuuri had visited him in these chambers, spent most of the lunches with him. Even sharing a few nights with him, but there had been no sex. Not that Murata felt like any without Wolfram. Before, it had never been a problem. Wolfram went on month-long patrols a few times a year. But, now, it felt wrong and he knew Yuuri felt the same way. He wouldn’t blame Shibuya if he chose to break up with him and place Wolfram as his first priority.

He let go of the ring slowly and exhaled. Murata would have to accept that separation was likely in the near future and move on. It would be hard, but he would endure as long as he could keep them safe. As long as he could give Shibuya a chance to grow and make this kingdom a better place.

Resolved, he straightened his shoulders, walked into his office and settled himself down for work.

That night, Onyal was found mysteriously dead in his cell. The official decree sent out was that it was suicide. Emitis did not object.

Murata was convinced it was murder.

~***~

Wolfram couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept well since they had settled into the Voltaire main estate.

He gazed up at the white, flimsy canopy of the bed he shared with Yuuri and forced his mind to blankness. Normally, he could lull his mind into sleep with daydreams, but his overworked imagination was going to places he didn’t want.

Instead, he tried focusing on the sounds outside.

The Voltaire grounds were covered with water features. Usually, the sound of water running would sooth him, just like it had as a child. But tonight, it wasn’t working.

Yuuri was asleep next to him, undoubtedly exhausted from a long day of playing nice with court sycophants. How Wolfram hated that role. As much as he loved Yuuri, he’d rather be riding every day in the country than face court. For all his training, he’d never have the simple charm that came naturally to his husband. Yuuri liked everybody, and that genuineness was far more appealing than Wolfram’s polite, courtly diplomacy.

With a sigh, giving up on sleep, he pulled the light covers off and walked barefoot over the polished marble floors and through the glass doors which led to the spacious balcony. Wolfram paused for a moment. The soldier side of him took note of his surroundings, looking for any obvious threats or anything amiss. He was still tense from the assassination attempt at the capital.

Seeing nothing but the still night, he walked out towards the balustrade, enjoying the faint scent of the viridian creeper whose elegant leaves and blooms covered the walls of this side of the manor.

This time of year, in Voltaire, it was beginning to get warm. The breeze pushed welcome fine mist from the large fountain below. So refreshing. He leaned over the balustrade and looked across the grounds. They were on the second level, a Voltaire soldier walked by the path below, and he could spot another sentry in the bushes a little further towards the outer walls. After the attack, Gwendal was leaving nothing to chance.

He’d bet his horse that his brother was spending a shift each night standing outside the front doors with that massive broadsword of his. Likely, he was standing there now. If it wasn’t such an important duty, he’d go and talk to him, to pass the time.

He rested his cheek against the balustrade stone, letting its coolness seep through to his muddled, tired thoughts. It was there that Yuuri found him, light fingers massaging the nape at the back of his neck.

He turned around and was in the circle of steady arms.

“You should be asleep,” he muttered against clean blue cotton. Yuuri laughed lightly and rubbed his hands down his braid. “Says you.”

“Just needed some fresh air.” He kissed Yuuri’s collar bone.

Yuuri grasped his forearm and pulled him gently back to the bench against the vine covered walls. He leaned against Yuuri tiredly.

“I like it here,” Yuuri said. “We should make this our home.”

It was said casually enough, but Yuuri had said it often over the years and Wolfram knew it was a wish from the heart, a dear desire to have a life away in Shin Makoku outside of their duties. It had been like that ever since their first time together in the room inside, just after their wedding. A few weeks of blessed work-free bliss.

Wolfram loved Voltaire just as much as Yuuri. The weather was mild on the wide plains. The people were far more relaxed, protected by the benevolent Voltaire family for generations, even the war seemed to have trod lightly on the province. He knew that appearance was deceiving. Just as many young men (and some young women) had been lost to that conflict years before, the same as anywhere.

Maybe that perception was coloured by his memory. Before the war, he had spent long summer days at this estate, often riding in the fields. The Voltaire war horses were bred for intelligence, stamina, and long lives and were the prize of Shin Makoku. Voltaire held everything he was passionate about. Wolfram loved it here.

“The capital needs the Maou,” he replied as he had often before and he could feel a sigh from Yuuri. “One day...” Yuuri said. “Murata would like it here too...” he trailed off.

There was a moment of charged silence, the atmosphere shifting slightly.

“Do you think...” he paused and started again trying to word things carefully. “Do you think it’s because we weren’t giving him enough attention.” As soon as he said it, he knew it sounded silly. So he tried again. “I know why he... It was to get information from that traitor, but...maybe there was something more.” Like his mother, who was always seeking attention from others and tiring of her lovers when the novelty wore out – ceaselessly searching for something that Wolfram suspected she’d never find. In nearly all ways, Murata was as far as he could imagine from his mother, but, Murata had had a reputation for having many lovers before he’d married Yuuri – and from what little he’d gleaned from conversations, he believed that reputation was deserved. “Maybe, he has tired of us.” Murata had said he loved them, but, perhaps, that wasn’t good enough.

“No,” Yuuri protested. “ _No_. Wolf, that’s _not_ like Murata. The problem was that he didn’t tell us his plans with Onyal, not that he was bored with us. Besides,” Yuuri said in a teasing way as he brushed his hands down his hair, “I can’t imagine he could ever get bored with you.”

He gave Yuuri a faint smile.

Yes, Yuuri was right. It was such an unreasonable and silly fancy of his. He felt stupid. Yet no matter the intent, he still felt betrayed by Murata. And while knowing why he did it helped somewhat, it wasn’t enough.

“It’s going to take a while for me to forgive him,” he said quietly. He didn’t say he wasn’t sure if he could. He didn’t want to bring Yuuri sadness.

He expected Yuuri to protest, but, instead, he sighed and kissed his brow and then said, “I overheard what you said to Yozak, near the eastern corridor.”

His face went red. “I was angry.” Apologies were very difficult for him. “I regret what I said.” He didn’t understand Yozak, or his ethics, or what really had happened between him and Conrad (though he had his suspicions), but he knew that he was loyal to the kingdom and didn’t deserve his insinuations. Wolfram was a noble and prince and his temper did not excuse his rude behaviour.

Wolfram leaned back against Yuuri’s chest and relaxed as a hand caressed him, warmth seeping through his nightgown from his shoulder down to his elbow, over the curve of his collar bone and back up again.

“You should tell Yozak that sometime,” Yuuri suggested gently. And, now that he’d said it, in such a reasonable way - the rhythmic caress didn’t hurt. Wolfram really had no choice.

He sighed as Yuuri’s thumb came up to stroke along his jaw line and his body started to thrum with anticipation. It had been a long time since they had shared any intimacy...not since he’d walked in on Murata kissing the human envoy.

“We should sleep,” Wolfram said, his voice ending breathlessly as a nipple was brushed roughly through silky fabric.

“Sleep, huh?” Yuuri removed his hair tie and pulled his fingers through the braid, letting it loose until his hair fell down his back, hanging almost to his waist. It was time for a trim. Pulling his hair over so it hung down his right shoulder, he stood up and put his hand out to the king.

“Well...sleep in a little while.”

Not long after that, in the bed, the white canopy down so it became their own personal world, they made love. Yuuri was particularly gentle, touching him as if he was some type of rare, Rochford crafted crystal.

Impatient, he reached for Yuuri, only to have his hand lightly battered aside. “Just...let me, Wolf,” were Yuuri’s words, something in it hit a chord and he lay back and let Yuuri touch him. Let Yuuri caress his skin, his hair, the jut of his hip and his hard length. Kissing and sucking his nipples and then peppering butterfly kisses in a row down towards his erection before taking him in his mouth, sucking him till his pleasure peaked. Then, as he lay sated, Yuuri fucked him the way he liked the most, with long, steady satisfying thrusts until he came once more.

He held Yuuri close as he trembled. For all that Yuuri had treated him like he would break; he felt it was the other way around. He wanted to hold Yuuri forever in his arms and protect him from the world.

After they had cleaned up, he held Yuuri close again, the king’s cheek resting under his chin, eyelashes tickling his skin as he blinked, still awake. Wolfram’s thoughts went to the first time they made love, which was in this very same bed. They had come to the Voltaire Estate for a break directly after their wedding. In this bed, he had promised Yuuri that he’d let no other know him as Yuuri did. He’d broken those vows, more enthusiastically than was right, years later with Murata. He’d done it gladly with no guilt.

After so long a struggle to accept Yuuri’s feelings for the Great Sage, and his own conscience, it was amazing to kiss Murata that night as Yuuri watched. He wondered if he was being punished now by fate for breaking his vows. Wolfram was not overly superstitious, but he knew that there were beings other than holy Shinou who paid attention to these things. But if this betrayal was his punishment, then it was cruel indeed. He just wished Yuuri didn’t have to be hurt with him.

“I’m angry,” Yuuri said, breaking into his thoughts in the darkness. “I’m _so_ angry at him, Wolf. I want us back together, I want you to forgive him, but it makes me a hypocrite because I want to make him pay for what he did.” Yuuri rolled onto his back next to him. “It scares me, it scares me so much.”

Wolfram had some idea. There was a possessive streak in his usually easygoing husband. He’d seen it only a few times before Murata had come into their lives- the Sage brought out the Maou’s more dominant side, particularly in love-making and Murata lapped it up. Wolfram didn’t quite understand how it worked between his two lovers or what they gained from it. He didn’t want that type of attention himself and was glad that Yuuri had never pushed that onto him, or, to his relief, appear to be dissatisfied with him for the lack.

Watching their rough love-making would lead him feeling conflicted. He was both shocked (though less as time went on) and filled with a queer yearning when he watched the Maou take Murata with force. He was sure it was even rougher when he was away, and, though he didn’t- _couldn’t_ work out what that meant for him, not yet, he had often wondered what it would be like to be the centre of the Maou’s intense attention. To have those teeth biting into him. To have those talons raking his chest and being held so as to leave bruises.

He shivered.

That desire had gone no further than an unexamined wish. One thing he was certain of especially, Yuuri would never hurt Murata unless Murata asked for it.

These thoughts he was unable to express. There was nuance he didn’t understand and the last thing he wanted was to make Yuuri feel more wretched with his inadequate words.

Silence stretched on a little uncomfortably. Finally, he moved over and kissed Yuuri, deepening the kiss so he could taste his own essence, while his hand carding those dark strands. .

“You should talk to Murata when we return to the capital,” Wolfram said after the kiss ended. Murata would know what to do and what to say. Yuuri didn’t answer but his shoulders relaxed and Wolfram felt relief.

He couldn’t take Murata away from Yuuri. The Great Sage filled a hole that Wolfram could no longer do alone. It saddened him, not because he couldn’t be everything for Yuuri like he had always wanted ever since he had fallen for this beautiful dark eyed king.

No, it wasn’t that.

It was the understanding that came with it, an abrupt insight that made his mixed feelings over the last month make sense. Yuuri wasn’t able to be _everything_ for Wolfram, not any longer. Murata had found a place in Wolfram’s heart and his absence hurt.

“I understand Murata’s actions. As such, I will try to forgive him,” he whispered in Yuuri’s ear knowing that his husband shared his loss. “I will try.”

He _would_ try.

 

~***~

As much as Yozak liked the idealistic young king, it was the Great Sage who had his primary loyalty.

The Great Sage was a contrast--pragmatic where the king was overly optimistic, wary while the king was open. And, most importantly to Yozak, vigilant against those who would take away the order that had kept peace and prosperity in the kingdom for humans and mazoku alike.

From the moment he had met the apparently irreverent Murata Ken, he had...for lack of a better word, fallen under the Sage’s charisma. In this man-child, he had thought back then, was the one who would guide the kingdom to a tolerable future. Tolerable, not perfect. Yozak had given up on that dream for his adopted homeland (In fact, he wondered if he ever had it). He wanted Shin Makoku to be a place where people could have a chance, human _and_ mazoku. To create a future where people jaded by war, like Conrad and himself, would no longer exist. To spare the next generation from that horror. Yozak’s modest goals were well worth any task the Sage gave him.

For a time, he had believed that Murata, this young dark foreigner, was the _true_ power in the kingdom. He knew better now. It wasn’t the Maou’s power that convinced him. It wasn’t the kid’s intuition or the human allies he had collected – but Murata’s solid confidence in the demon king which made him look harder, to see the Demon King that Shibuya Yuuri would one day become. To see, if Shibuya lived, that he would surpass all that had come before (or so Murata had said one night when they were drinking). He wouldn’t live to see it, nor would Murata Ken. But smoothing the path for the young king was what he did, what _they_ did.

Conrad would never realise, in a roundabout fashion, that Yozak believed in the Maou just as much as he did. To believe in the Great Sage meant exactly that. And, perhaps, (and maybe Conrad would understand this a little better considering his own service with the king) he was just a little in love with the Great Sage. But that was irrelevant to his service and friendship, a feeling he had kept carefully compartmentalised. After all, Conrad’s face came to his mind; Yozak Gurrier had had plenty of practice.

Murata Ken, the Great Sage, equal to the Maou and Divine Herald of the Great One, one of many titles, sat at his oaken desk opposite him. His eyes were alert, but he looked tired. It was nothing obvious. His hair was braided impeccably, black suit pressed and fitted well. There were no telltale black shadows under his eyes – but there was an air of exhaustion around him that was palpable. This was a far different man than the one who told bawdry jokes over a mug of ale and flirted as easily as breathing with anything with two legs.

Usually, Yozak would have brought up how tired Murata looked, but the Great Sage was not in a mood for polite banter.

“It was pretty uneventful,” Yozak said. “But, then, I didn’t expect anything after the attack on the city. They wouldn’t show their hand after Onyal.” Speaking of. “His death was very convenient, got any leads from that?”

Murata shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “There are at least two poisons that I know of that could have caused his heart attack. Both are impossible to detect by the time his body was found. And I’ve sourced nothing from the local chemists who have the skill to formulate the poisons. It’s a short list. And the guards swear they heard nothing.”

“He could have just had a weak heart? You know that it happens sometimes with half-breeds.” Yozak very much doubted it and he said it sarcastically, a small way to break the seriousness of their meeting.

Murata gave him a dark look. Well, that silly remark was a failure. “And almost all who do seldom reach adulthood.” Murata waved his hand dismissively. “I doubt it is natural causes. The timing is too convenient.”

“You do know that some people will assume that the king had him killed for hurting the prince. There are also rumours to the affect that it was the work of the Great Sage.” Such was the Great Sage’s darker reputation.

Murata shrugged unconcerned. “There should be little political fallout from either assumption bearing in mind Onyal’s actions.” There was a pause before he addressed him. “I did not arrange for his death, Yozak.”

The possibility had occurred to him, though he had thought it unlikely considering a public trial would be low risk, would, indeed, work _for_ the king.

Murata would have picked the man clean of any information he had, thoroughly, using drugs and torture. He didn’t want to think too much about the methods, extreme interrogation wasn’t his thing. He’d never had the stomach for it. Onyal’s death appeared to serve no purpose to anyone unless there was more he knew (doubtful), or more that someone else believed he knew. Without evidence, Yozak could run around in circles with theories.

Just a few days after the attack, he’d been sent orders to search for a mazoku called “Richard.” Probably, a noble who frequented a merchant’s tavern in the southern quarter. That lead had hit a brick wall fast. Focusing his thoughts on Onyal’s death, he addressed Murata, “I checked the guards’ story and it’s unlikely they are involved.” Yozak kept his voice neutral, professional.

Murata leaned forward, removed some papers indifferently, and gave him a sharp look. There was a void in his eyes that Yozak didn’t like. “Unlikely?”

Yozak smiled grimly. “As unlikely as I can determine. But we’ll have them moved to a less sensitive post and I’ll have them watched for a time.”

Murata sat back in his chair and looked into the middle distance for a moment and gave him a look, as cold as ice and suggested oh so casually, “It would be easier to remove them. If they are involved in a plot, then the instigator is not likely to use them again.”

Not an order, not quite.

No surprise, given the Great Sage’s mood. Yozak did not like this side of the man, understood it to a degree, but it chilled him. He spoke carefully. “That’s not how we operate anymore.” He tried to keep the censure from his voice but was afraid he’d failed when there was a glimmer of anger in Murata’s eye which passed quickly. It was one thing to do away with someone like Onyal, who had tried to kill the Maou, but it was another to kill innocents just to wrap up loose ends. “If that’s your order, I’d also advise the same policy with the chemists and the fishing merchants who were with the envoy, just to be thorough. But it wouldn’t be subtle. Even the king would _notice_.” He left that last word hanging knowing it would be the main deterrent for the Great Sage. Murata had no interest going against the Maou’s wishes.

Just the same, he still wasn’t sure what Murata would do. If the king had given Murata leave to handle things as he wished and overlook his actions (as he had sometimes done, though with far less serious matters), then Murata would ignore his advice.

Yozak would carry out those orders, all the same, even knowing that the guards were likely innocent of treason. Murata knew that well. He’d cross that line if he had to. After all, he was the Great Sage’s man, but he’d rather not and he was not going to pretend otherwise.

There was a charged pause and then Murata closed his eyes, relenting a little, becoming a little more human. Mentally, Yozak took a sigh of relief. He’d no doubt that one day things would get far greyer, but it didn’t mean he had to welcome it.

“Make sure they are never in the same province as the Maou.” Murata only gave him a mild look.

“I’ll arrange it with Lord von Voltaire,” Yozak said in a lazy drawl still trying to lighten the mood. “And you never know, Murata... In the improbable event that the guards are guilty, then this ‘Richard’ might show his hand. He was stupid enough to use Onyal.”

Yet, there was something off about that. Yozak didn’t think his suspect would be so foolish. But, then again they had hired Onyal... It didn’t really make sense. There were inconsistencies in this assassination attempt that he didn’t like and he was sure that Murata had already come to the same conclusion. It made no sense at all...unless...

“You believe Rochford had no intention of succeeding?” Yozak asked, using the key suspect’s name. Of course not. It was far too convenient. Was this attack some type of trial run? It was a likely possibility.

“Perhaps,” Murata said dismissively. But it was confirmation enough. “Any other information?”

“No, everyone has settled back into the castle.” Yozak paused and decided to chance it. He was never known for playing things safe and Murata had always respected his frank advice, as friend and advisor. “The gossip is all centred on you. The popular theory is that you’ve had a falling out with the Prince Consort. And you don’t want to know the castle betting pool odds for the cause of the fallout.” Obviously, Yozak knew far more than that, and Murata knew it.

He himself had to deal with Conrad’s unhappiness over Onyal’s attack. Though he knew Conrad would forgive him since the kid’s life had not been in serious danger and he’d accepted that Wolfram’s position as prince consort placed him at risk. Conrad knew why he’d done it. The captain understood loyalty and duty, better than most.

No, it wasn’t Conrad who Yozak was worried about.

Murata gave him a hard look. “It is of no interest to me.” Alrighty then. He’d give it one more shot. Yozak knew how hard this was hitting Murata, possibly clouding his judgment and he wanted to help.

“Perhaps, but ever since court has returned, the Prince Consort has been going around like he’s lost his favourite mare, and the king is acting just as bad. If you don’t spend more time at the castle then-“

Yozak’s stopped abruptly as the door opened and the Demon King appeared, striding into the room with purpose.

“I’ll be onto it then,” Yozak continued smoothly. Murata paid him no heed, his attention entirely on the Demon King. Yozak stood up, feeling like a fifth wheel on a wagon and then gave a deferential (as much as Yozak could get) nod to the Maou. “Your Majesty.”

“Umm, hi,” Yuuri replied sparing a quick glance at him before returning his full attention on the Sage. He had a feeling he could start doing a one-man waltz and those two wouldn’t notice, so wrapped up were they in each other.

He headed towards the door. The mood in the room was a little too intense for him and he doubted his presence would be missed. With luck, the kid’s visit would lighten Murata’s mood.

As for himself, he’d go visit Lord von Voltaire to get those two hapless guards stationed elsewhere and then go annoy Conrad for a bit. After all, the kid was busy with Murata, so Conrad should have plenty of free time.

~***~


	3. Chapter 3

If it wasn’t for Wolfram’s continued blessing, Murata would have ended the marriage before now. Ultimately, Yuuri had no say if he decided to make an official statement of divorce. There were a myriad of ways he could manoeuvre Yuuri into dissolving their marriage, no matter how obstinate the king was in keeping their relationship. 

Those thoughts were upmost in his mind as he looked up at Shibuya who had arrived with no notice, frame tense.

“Yuuri?” He asked.

The young king inhaled heavily. He said slowly, almost painfully. “This can’t continue.”

Murata pulled on his Sage persona and clasped his hands on the desk and nodded impersonally. “I understand.” This was it then. Yuuri had taken the decision away from him. In a remote part of his head, he railed against it, but he locked that down harshly. It didn’t matter. He knew, through so many memories, that keeping a relationship running all alone was futile and destructive. Ending it before hard feelings set in was sensible. At the least, he could pick up their friendship. And, for the kingdom, a positive partnership between the Sage and Maou was desirable. Eventually, he might hope to salvage some type of professional work relationship with...Bielefeld. Though, he held only modest hopes.

Surprisingly, Yuuri shook his head and said. “I _don’t_ think you do.” 

Yuuri stalked, there was no other word for it, around his desk silently and looked down at him. Murata cranked his neck up to watch Yuuri, uneasiness building within him. “Shibuya?” his voice only cracked a little bit.

This wasn’t in the script. He felt his control unravelling. But he held onto it, for Yuuri’s sake.

Yuuri’s face was unreadable as he reached a hand out and opened the first three buttons on Murata’s high collared jacket, pulling it down, exposing his neck. Then, the same hand reached around his throat, holding him softly, cradling. Murata swallowed, mortified to find that this had turned him on. He was vulnerable and keenly aware of how much power there was in this being--his husband-- as his throat was squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough for him to feel uncomfortable.

“I’m still angry,” Yuuri said intensely and then withdrew his hand. There was a look of conflict in his eyes, the domineering manner from before faltering for a moment. “I’m afraid, Murata...of myself, of what I’m feeling.”

“What are you feeling?” he asked softly, his eyes locked with Shibuya’s.

Yuuri closed his eyes and then opened them and said, “The Maou wants to punish you.” Yuuri shook his head and then fixed him with a dark look. “And so do I--I want to make you pay. Yet, I don’t want to hurt you.” Yuuri’s eyes once again showed his internal doubt.

Murata swallowed. The need in Yuuri mirrored his own. He was so tired, tired of his memories, tired of his guilt. Guilt for disappointing Wolfram, for not acting the way he was expected to. 

He was tired of it. Murata wanted to let go, just for a moment, and Yuuri would be able to catch him. Yuuri would take care of him. 

“I want to be hurt,” he said steadily, never breaking eye contact. He took Yuuri’s hand and placed it back on his throat. “I trust you in this.” He pulled his head to one side, baring his neck, submissive in a way that he knew would please the Maou, would please Shibuya. And this what Murata wanted. Of course, he was also afraid, but the fear only made him more excited. He knew what the Maou was; he knew what he was capable of. He knew that the Maou could crush his life without trying. 

Murata was afraid and aroused, and he was sure Yuuri-Maou would sense it.

His eyes fluttered shut as Yuuri traced one thumb down to his pulse point, feeling the thrum of his lifeblood speeding up. “You have betrayed me and Wolfram. You have let another touch you.” Shibuya’s voice was deep like the Maou. “But...” Yuuri’s voice faltered once more. “I can’t...“

_No, please, Shibuya. I need this too._

Murata placed his hand over the one around his throat and looked up at Yuuri. His eyes were slitted, feral. The Maou had merged entirely with Shibuya, an equal symbiosis. 

A memory came to Murata of the first night together, of the Maou taking him...
    
    
      _“Say ‘nay’ and I will stop.”_
    

“I know what you need. I need this, too. Can you not sense it, love?” Yuuri-Maou inhaled deeply, practically quivering. Yes, he could smell Murata’s desire, and he was sure that once Yuuri had more self-confidence in his heightened senses, he would know when it was too much for Murata. But, for now, there was another way to alleviate Yuuri’s fears. “I know the word. I will say ‘nay’ if it’s too much.” He didn’t think he would. Whatever Yuuri-Maou did to him, he would take it, pain or humiliation, everything and anything. It would be a relief, a way to wash away this burden, a way to let go, to hand over all this control to someone else, someone whom he could completely trust. To Murata Ken, it was an incredible turn-on. He said gently, “I want to be punished. Hurt me, Maou.”

He closed his eyes and the hand around his throat squeezed him and another hand came up to palm his cheek possessively and he welcomed it. 

The hand let go again and he was pulled up from the chair without a word. Yuuri-Maou watched without comment as he took his glasses off and placed them gently on his desk. He blinked. The room had become hazy and without his glasses he felt vulnerable, naked. His hand was taken and he went passively as he was led around the desk and through the door that led to his bedchamber.

As he went through the door, a sudden perverse feeling surged up and he pulled back, deliberately defiant– knowing precisely what that would mean. He couldn’t let go without a fight. He was the Great Sage. _Now what will you do?_

The game had begun and apart from that one rule, anything could happen. They had played this game before, but never had it been this intense.

Murata wanted to see how far he could push things, to see that feral darkness in the Maou’s eyes. He was roughly shoved against Yuuri’s broad frame, the hand around his arm tightening in a way he knew would leave a bruise and his husband’s hand went to his throat again with a growl. He looked up at the slitted face of the Maou, nose flaring, so terrible, so fierce and beautiful.

Yuuri-Maou’s hand clamped hard around his chin and his face was pushed upward and back. He struggled in vain as a sharp claw inched over the softness of his cheek. “You resist...” The smile on Yuuri-Maou’s face was full of sinful delight, “You will fail. You are _mine_ , Sage.”

“I am nobody’s...” he said rudely and then lips were upon him, forceful, tongue plundering his mouth and, for a moment, any rebellious urge to fight left– before he pushed his hand against Yuuri-Maou’s chest, trying to pull free. 

The Maou bit his lower lip in retaliation, tightening his hold and Murata cried out in pain and excitement. He felt his body react, his cock filling and the arrogant creature would be able to sense it. No hiding his feelings here. He was exposed emotionally.

The Maou pulled him close, chest to chest, and he breathed against Murata’s ear. ‘You are mine, and I shall show you, my impudent mate, exactly what that means.” 

Yuuri-Maou grabbed his right forearm and Murata was dragged across the room forcefully and pushed onto the bed.

The awkward momentum had him falling gracelessly on his side. And when Murata licked his lips, he could taste the metallic tang of blood.

In a flash, the Maou was there pulling him up and then ripping open his jacket, buttons flying all over, clattering on the floor. And then another loud rip as the shirt was pulled apart. His token protests were battered aside. Yuuri-Maou was pulling his pants down, his cock strained against his g-string, half hard and still growing and the chuckle from the creature above only made him harder. 

He hissed in frustrated humiliation. He may not be a soldier, but he knew some tricks. He curled his foot under Yuuri-Maou and dislodged him, just enough to get free. He was up and halfway across the room before the Maou was upon him, lightning fast.

Murata was pulled back against the solid frame of Yuuri-Maou, one strong arm clamped firmly against his chest. It stung, there were shallow cuts where the Maou had removed his clothes heedless of his talons. He pushed away, but the struggles only brought about a deep amused chuckle in his ear.

“You think you can escape?” The mocking tone was dark, thickly pervading his senses. “If that is your true wish, you only need say the word, Sage. But I _know_ you won’t.” 

Fused with the Maou, Yuuri was far more self-assured and dominant.

If he _truly_ wanted to run away…? Oh, who was he fooling? If it wasn’t a game, even considering it involved sorting out some serious concerns between them in a... unorthodox way, but still a game, he could put a stop to... If this wasn’t a game with boundaries then he’d have no hope of leaving. 

This creature, his dear Yuuri who was more than human, more than mazoku, was far more powerful than Murata could ever hope to be. 

Any escape would be futile. He knew that the day he pledged himself to Yuuri-Maou’s side.

Paradoxically, that’s what made it far more exciting for him, all the more real and intense. 

Yuuri-Maou relished his rebelliousness. For all his protective instincts, he was a predator first and foremost and he enjoyed the hunt.

He struggled once more against the iron grip.

“Oh no.” More laughter with a dark edge. “Not yet, Sage. First, you need to be punished.”

With a sharp nip to his earlobe, he was again shoved back onto the bed. It happened so suddenly he barely had time to move or think. By the time everything made sense, Yuuri-Maou was divesting him of his g-string, a sharp claw shearing through the fabric effortlessly.

Yuuri-Maou paused, one strong hand holding his wrists together above his head and pinning his legs down with his body. Murata tried to kick out, to free himself. But, without leverage, it was impossible and his strength was failing. 

Murata expected more words, taunting, or pain. But, instead, Yuuri-Maou gave him an odd look. Yuuri’s free hand come forward and traced the delicate chain around his neck and then gently caressed the ring, brow creased in thought before looking back up at him for a moment with infinite sadness. 

The moment froze. He blinked and then Yuuri-Maou let the gold ring go. The moment ended.

His wrists still bound, Yuuri-Maou gave him a dark gaze. Murata was naked and the king still clothed in his black uniform. He had not even removed his shoes.

“You are very beautiful, naked, and laid out before me. It pleases me so to make you submit. Oh Murata, you have _no_ idea how much this pleases me.” 

The last admission was breathless and purely Yuuri. 

Yuuri-Maou glowed blue and from behind him rose two water dragons, twisting and slow in their fluidness. The sinuous serpents twisted slowly upward around his arms, still pinned above his head and then wound tight around the same wrists that were held by Yuuri-Maou. 

Yuuri sat back, now satisfied that he wouldn’t be able to move his arms. The pressure from the dragons, an icy coldness, so different from the heat of the Yuuri-Maou, kept his wrists immobile.

Yuuri-Maou considered him carefully and then traced his finger along one bleeding cut below his nipple, ignoring his wince of pain. And, then, he placed the bloody finger in his mouth and sucked. The look of delight at the taste of his blood was very erotic. Murata was embarrassed when a small sound of want escaped him. He was already quite hard, but Yuuri-Maou had paid no regard to his desire.

“Perhaps I should bind you to this bed from now on in such a way you would please me whenever I wanted to satisfy myself.” Yuuri-Maou’s voice lowered threateningly and moved forward so his sharp teeth were close to Murata’s face, nostrils flaring and eyes slit – the pressure on his groin was maddening. “And, to stop you from straying from where you truly belong.” 

As Yuuri-Maou said this, the cold serpent’s pressure on his wrists tightened painfully. It stopped dead any retort he had building up inside him. He was afraid. He was excited. He wanted to be touched.

Yuuri-Maou smiled a wolf-like smile, satisfied and smug, and a small part of Murata wanted to wipe that smile off his face. Yet, that small part of him was losing ground against the needs of his body.

Large hands lightly touched his face, and then ghosted down his chest. One nipple was barely touched though Murata strained his body forward. 

His groans of disappointment changed to lust as the same hand ghosted down to lightly encircle the shaft of his cock. 

Oh, fates help him. 

Yuuri-Maou stopped his light stroking and let go.

“Up on your knees,” the Maou commanded. Murata balked. 

There was a loud crack as he was smacked across the front of his thighs and he gasped, though the sound was far worse than the sting of the slap.

“ _Now_!” His husband’s voice wasn’t loud, but, all the same, it was an obvious command. Yuuri-Maou expected obedience. 

Clumsily, he managed to get onto his knees. His wrists were held against his stomach by the chilly water serpents and it made it an awkward scramble. 

Yuuri-Maou moved around the bed behind him and he could hear him remove his clothing. He flinched at the clunk-clunk of the shoes which were dropped carelessly on the ground. Naked and bound, Murata felt vulnerable, exposed, and his cuts continued to sting. He dare not speak.

There was a moment, followed by another, and he shivered knowing he was being watched.

He flinched only slightly as a hand with sharp talons clasped the back of his neck and there was a chuckle that sounded very much like Yuuri. It was unsettling and reassuring. 

It invoked conflicting emotions.

For this wasn’t just the Maou, but Yuuri, too. Sweet Yuuri who relished this role. Murata didn’t know which part of the melded personality he wanted more. 

But such musings were discarded as a gasp was wrung from him as those talons scratched down his back, enough to leave a mark but, this time, not enough to draw blood. A thumb delicately traced the vein in his neck. This time, claws carefully sheathed (Murata had yet to work out how that worked, the scientific side of him wanting to know the physics of this transformation).

Bound like this, at the complete mercy of his friend and lover who was merged with one of the most powerful spirits of this world, he felt...cherished. No, that wasn’t quite right. Shibuya always made him feel cherished – but there was something extra in this act that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Murata was certain that Wolfram felt it, too. Though, the prince had different preferences. Yuuri-Maou had that certain something that drew them both to him.

What would it be like with Wolfram here? He dismissed the errant thought quickly. That was unlikely. This was not Wolfram’s inclination even if they had been on speaking terms. No, this wasn’t something Wolfram would be comfortable with, having seen nothing more risqué than rough play and Yuuri-Maou respected his consort’s desires. Games like this only happened when Wolfram was absent, and this game was pushing things further than Yuuri had ever dared before. 

The mattress settled behind him as Yuuri crawled onto the bed. Another wet snake curled around his waist, and then slithered downward, down to his heat. He groaned. 

Abruptly, his braid was pulled painfully and his head snapped back. His throat was bared and exposed. Murata could feel a hand winding its way up his braid and he was abruptly pulled back once more flush against the naked shoulder of Yuuri-Maou. From the corner of his eye, he could see his lover’s face, but the angle was painfully awkward. A hand held his throat and squeezed tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe. Instinctively, he tried to move his hands up to push the pressure away but the watery dragon would not let him move. 

Murata felt the beginnings of panic building along with the burning need for oxygen. But before fear took over, Yuuri-Maou let go, sensing his distress. 

Murata closed his eyes trying to centre himself between the heat and coldness. There was a pause, and Yuuri, he was sure that was Yuuri who traced his finger down his cheek in a soothing motion, was giving him time to calm, or an opportunity to say something if he wanted this to stop.

He was thankful for the momentary break, but he didn’t want this game to end. He gave himself two more beats and then he strained against the bonds, eager to continue. 

At this point, he was on Yuuri-Maou’s lap, and he could feel the hardness of arousal hot against the small of his back. He squirmed. Murata’s cock was hard and heavy, a burning need jutting outward as the snake made cold sinuous patterns just above. It left behind a trail of goose marks. The cold of the serpent and the heat of the body he was pushed against were disorientating and strangely thrilling.

A breath whispered against his ear and he made a small whimper of need, biting his tongue to stop himself.

“Who do you belong to?” Yuuri-Maou said in a casual tone, as if he was asking him what he wanted for dinner.

Murata opened his mouth, swallowed, feeling the hand around his throat once more. “No-one,” he whispered.

The hand around his throat tightened, another hand scratching across the cuts on his chest. At the same time the snake starting to wrap itself around his erection lightly, he hissed though the cold water had little effect on his lust.

Yuuri-Maou’s voice rose slightly but the tone did not change, still cool and casual. “Who do you belong to, Murata-Sage?”

“I...belong to myself.” 

There was a deadly pause. “Wrong answer.” 

Murata braced himself for pain.

Yuuri’s hand came around and touched Murata’s hips, heat contrasted against the water serpent. Yuuri-Maou then lowered one hand downward and held his balls lightly. Murata closed his eyes, excitement and fear warring inside him. A surge of pure pleasure struck. From the base of his spine, the delicious feeling radiated outward, his skin becoming hyper-sensitive and his body locked in pure rapture. 

This was a trick he’d only seen being used on Wolfram, and, then, only a handful of times at the whim of the Maou. 

Yuuri was an affectionate and thoughtful lover, and he had always satisfied Murata, but this was far beyond that. It felt so good, sublime. He could easily become addicted. 

Perhaps, that’s why Yuuri rarely used it.

Murata couldn’t stop the moans and his hips pushed forward trying to get friction though he could only dazedly feel the hand cupping his balls lightly. The snake had moved upward, and his cock was untouched.

It was bliss, sheer unadulterated bliss.

The pleasure kept coming but soon it became too much. Too much with no relief, no accumulation of that pure undiluted pleasure, no release and it just kept- _kept_ coming. It became painful, not physically painful, but painful nonetheless. Murata was desperate for more, for some freefall into true orgasm. He could almost imagine his neurons burning out. 

Surely, his nervous system could only take so much of this?

“Please,” he sobbed, the plea bursting forth without his control. How mortifying! 

“Please?” Yuuri-Maou said in that still disinterested tone. 

The pleasure stopped, like a switch had been flipped. It left him hard, needy, and trembling. The snake held him tight against Yuuri-Maou, his hips pushed out as far as he was allowed. His cock was engorged and twitching, wrists bound, he could do little about it. 

His body was one shivering mass of need. Sweat coated his face, dripping down on this chest and stinging his cuts. Wisps of hair stuck to Murata’s face across his eyes. It was irritating.

But those concerns were petty compared to his body’s desire.

“Who do you belong to?” Yuuri-Maou asked again, lips brushing against the side of his face and leaving behind tiny explosions of pleasure on his skin. It was a mere shadow of the pleasure from before, and a promise. 

“I-I...You ... I belong to you,” he said, feeling relief in that admission. And, now admitting it, Murata added quickly, “I’ve always been yours, forever.”

Lips brushed above his ear, a kiss of appreciation and approval. The snakes around his wrist unravelled and he was pushed forward suddenly. He placed his hands out to stop himself from going face forward into the covers with a huff, the rough push after that kiss jarring his senses. 

Now, he was on his hands and knees, the liquid snake still moving around his waist with its twin and a large hand splayed along the small of his back. 

“Mine,” Yuuri-Maou said, and for the first time, he could hear some breathlessness in the king’s voice. At last, his feigned disinterest in his obvious desire was breaking and it made Murata so glad that it wasn’t just him who was affected.

Hands kneaded his arse cheeks as the two serpents roamed freely over and around his body. Where before they had been freezing, they were now warm. Perhaps, his body had adjusted, or maybe, he thought half-hysterically, his body heat had warmed them up. He felt hot enough, his skin burning like he had a fever. 

“I would have nobody else touch you. No. None other than I and my consort-mate,” Yuuri-Maou said in a low voice as he leaned over. A hand had moved slowly around to grasp loosely at his erection and he lurched forward. His mind had virtually shut down; he had nothing more in him other than to want. 

Murata could barely make out the words murmured against his back as he was jerked off slowly. Words of possession, of passion, and desire. Words of want, of desperation, of need, and of love.

“I...Shibuya...” he gasped out, and ended in a moan as his balls were squeezed and rolled. And he lurched again, his hands clenching the covers below him and he pushed wildly back against Yuuri-Maou. Desperately needing to be claimed. He was so hard, had been hard for what seemed like forever. Yuuri-Maou let go and pulled away and there was nothing touching him, the water dragons paused.

Murata groaned in frustration. 

“Please...” He begged again, clenching his eyes closed. His braid had come undone and his hair had fallen forward untidily in a way that would irritate him if he wasn’t more concerned with the burning heat between his legs and the desperate need to be fucked. 

Those hands were once again on his sensitive arse and then sliding down to hold his thighs, pushing them outward roughly. His knees slid and he lost traction briefly before regaining balance. 

There was the wet, warm slither of a serpent curling up around his right leg and then inwards into his crease and with a jabbing dart, inside, breaching the outer ring of his opening. The liquid force pushed in further and further, a steady pressure. He gasped out loud as the force increased. The length inside of him grew bigger and began surging in and out of him, not entirely leaving. It was a slow fuck, making him so wet and full. 

Yet it wasn’t hard enough; it was too diffuse, not enough solidness to tighten his muscles around, though his body couldn’t help but try. “More...Yuuri, please.”

Once again, those hands were on his arse, spreading him as the molten-warm liquid fucking continued, slowly, maddeningly so.

“Fuck me,” he pleaded, his voice rough.

“Gladly.”

With one swift thrust, the hot phallus of Yuuri-Maou breached him alongside the liquid serpents. Though the water made the passage easier, it still hurt as the cock buried itself fully inside him. It stung, burned. The solidness of that length inside him was all that he desperately needed.

His husband pulled out and then back in. Again and again until he was banging him brutally in stabbing motions in tandem with the water dragons. It built up a shivery heat inside of him as that hard length brushed past the sensitive gland inside.

The brutal thrusts pushed him forward. Murata scrambled for purchase as his arms buckled on his elbows, his arse forced up to a new angle which had the thrusting hit his prostate full on, a sweet torture. With the rapid fucking, he was getting close and the muscles in his back, his legs, and his thighs tightened.

Murata could feel it, the impending orgasm building in his loins and he groaned. Abruptly, Yuuri-Maou pulled him back upright with one arm around his stomach, breaking the tempo and he groaned in frustration. He was on Yuuri’s lap again, the engorged cock deep within him. 

Faintly, he could feel the tremble of the arms around him, holding him up as he sagged back against Yuuri’s sweaty chest. He could barely hold his head up, so senseless was he with need. Murata was held there for what seem like an eternity, on the knife edge between pure pleasure and agonising frustration. His inner muscles clenched against the cock impaling him reflexively- repeatedly. 

Yuuri-Maou encircled his fingers around his cock with a light grip. That primal frisson of flawless bliss returned, emanating from Yuuri’s hands into him and pulsating through every nerve ending. He cried out, arching backward and his hips gyrating against the length inside him as much as he could with the limited traction he was afforded.

He felt like he was going to literally die from pleasure.

“... _Yuuri_....” 

“Come for me.” The words growled in his ear and Yuuri-Maou clamped his teeth down on his shoulder, teeth grinding into his skin enough to leave a mark, pain that became pure ecstasy. 

Pleasure consumed him. It was all he knew. His body locked tight, thrust suddenly into exquisite freefall and kept that way for what seemed forever, his seed spattering onto his stomach. 

He was still coming when he was pushed forward stomach down on the mattress and Yuuri-Maou pounded into his body brutally. Murata was too caught up in ecstasy to notice any discomfort with the awkward and tight way he was being held, or any pain from being claimed so roughly. With a growl, Yuuri stilled inside him, hands gripping his hips tightly. With an exhalation of air, Yuuri came, jerking against him spasmodically as he was filled with the king’s essence.

That was the last he remembered before his over-stimulated mind fell into a faint.

~***~

When he came to, it was with the cool, soothing feel of Yuuri’s energy healing his shallow cuts and further...down into more intimate areas. He drifted a little, allowing it until Yuuri touched the tender spots on his wrist. No doubt there would be bruises there and he stopped the hand gently.

“No, don’t. I want to keep them,” he murmured in Japanese. He needed to have some physical memory of today, even for only the short time it took to heal. Where he could touch the bruises and feel that he had belonged.

He brushed his hand down his face, feeling clean. The Maou must have bathed him as he slept. Sometimes, it was beneficial to have a water wielder as a lover. 

Dark, tender eyes looked down at him. Yuuri’s head was propped up by one arm, his other hand’s healing glow faded. Then, slowly, Murata’s wrists were lifted and brushed against soft lips. His bruises, at the moment red and chafed, were kissed and then Yuuri said light-heartedly in the same language, though there was a catch in his words, “You are a kinky bastard, Ken.”

“No more than you,” he replied swiftly and then kicked himself mentally as Yuuri winced and closed his eyes. “Heh?” He touched Yuuri’ chin lightly until those eyes opened. He stretched on his side and hooked his legs around Yuuri’s, needing to make sure he’d stay. Both of them were naked and it felt nice, but he refused to be distracted. “This isn’t wrong.”

Yuuri sighed. “It feels...” His husband gave a dark chuckle. “I was going to say it feels wrong, but that would be a lie. What we did. It felt right. But I feel like I should feel it’s wrong. Does that make sense? It’s just...weird.” This had probably been as much as Yuuri had ever said about this particular dynamic between them. Then again, their play had never been so intense before, so primal and rough.

“Weird like you having two husbands? Or weird like living in a castle? Or weird that our husband can boil water with his mind or that Lord von Voltaire calls his skull-cracking broadsword kit-hmmffen?” Murata stopped as Yuuri clamped his hand over his mouth to shut him up. Yuuri had promised him never to joke about that piece of insider information again in respect for the chancellor. But, really, how could he not? Not even Yozak knew what Voltaire named his sword. He’d had to literally bite his tongue at times. It was hilarious.

“Well...yes. I see what you’re saying,” Yuuri said, withdrawing his hand. He flopped onto his back and then picked up Murata’s wrist once more, a thumb tracing the bruises which were now darkening. “But...I don’t like it. I don’t like that I enjoyed making this.” His thumb tapped the skin gently. Yuuri’s voice lowered to a whisper. “Or that seeing these bruises right now...it makes me... It pleases me. It’s wrong; it’s not how I was raised. I don’t like hurting people. A few months ago, I wanted to kill Onyal, and now this.”

Murata curled one arm around Yuuri’ and kissed his cheek.

“I _wanted_ to kill Onyal as well,” Murata confessed against Yuuri’s ear. “Because he tried to kill you. Because he hurt Wolfram and because...” He swallowed, his breath stuttering before he pulled himself together. “And because of what I did with him.” Yuuri frowned but didn’t say anything. “Your feelings were warranted, Yuuri. You didn’t kill him. Though I know how hard it must have been for you to hold back.” Murata placed his hand on his cheek, Yuuri responded best to physical comfort when he was upset. While, frequently, Wolfram was the opposite, needing space when he was angry or depressed. 

It was a testament to their feelings that they managed to overcome those differences - Wolfram accepting that affection when needed, and Yuuri letting Wolfram go likewise. But, then again, both were pure souls and still so young, which gave them a naive resilience and brightness that wasn’t easily tainted by life’s suffering. 

Along with a boundless ability to love.

How could Murata _not_ be drawn to that?

He traced his finger down Yuuri’s cheek gently, needing Yuuri to be comfortable enough so his words and feelings would be better understood. “But that’s _nothing_ like what we did today. _Nothing_.”

“But I wanted to punish you,” Yuuri muttered guiltily and turned his head and kissed the palm of his hand in half-apology and shame. 

“That’s what I needed,” Murata said boldly and rested his hand on Yuuri’s throat. He took a deep breath knowing his next words could frighten Yuuri more. “I _loved_ what you did to me.” It had made him feel so free, and at the same time, protected. But, that was information he wasn’t sure Yuuri was ready to hear.

“Murata, I humiliated you. I made you bleed. I made you afraid,” Yuuri said sceptically. 

“Yeah.” He smiled. “It was exhilarating. I like you being rough with me from time to time. You know how it made me feel, Shibuya. That’s just the way I’m wired.” He tapped his head nonchalantly. “This time, I needed it more than ever. I think you did, too.” 

“But...” Shibuya trailed off anxiously.

Murata continued speaking in Japanese. “There is _nothing_ wrong with you, Shibuya. You gave me exactly what I wanted. You are a good man with a kind heart and I believe and love you for it. Besides, you should trust my judgment. I’m the Great Sage, so I’m known for my wisdom.” He said this with exaggerated arrogance and kissed Yuuri on the head.

“And your modesty?” Yuuri responded in Japanese jokingly, though he still looked uneasy. 

“Yuuri,” Murata began-

There was the flutter of wings and a messenger bird dropped onto the perch next to his window. The ribbons on the seal to the cylinder around his neck had familiar colours.

“Günter’s already searching for me,” Yuuri said with a sigh switching back to Mazoku effortlessly, an unconscious slip back to everyday life as king. Murata wondered idly if he noticed how much he could read Shibuya’s moods with the language being used and its context. “I skipped out of going over the new tax guidelines.” 

“He’ll survive. Stay a little bit.” Back to Japanese, words of comfort, of home, a memory of when things were simpler. Yes, he was employing every method he could to keep Yuuri with him. Just a little longer, just for a nap and a few selfish moments of comfort.

They were still on their side facing each other as he reached over and gave Yuuri a kiss, a kiss which went on for quite a while. There was desire, but it was muted. It was much more about the need to touch, to re-establish their connection. Murata wanted this badly. It had been too long. After a few pleasant minutes, Yuuri broke the kiss. He was expecting a happier look but Yuuri broke eye contact and then bit his lip before facing him, eyes intent.

“Ken,” Yuuri said, his tone becoming serious. “Don’t do it again. Come to me next time, talk to me. You hurt Wolf...and I don’t know-I don’t know if I can control...” Yuuri faltered and then continued. “Just...don’t do it again.” 

Yuuri’s eyes searched his face gravely.

“I won’t. I promise you.” 

Yuuri studied him some more and then smiled. 

“So…We’re okay?” Yuuri asked. 

“Yes, always.” Murata meant it. Shibuya Yuuri had forgiven him. And, even if he’d never received that forgiveness, he’d still remain loyal to the Maou. 

And Wolfram. He’d always love the prince consort. Always.

Yuuri settled against him, saying no more. Murata closed his eyes and dreamt.

~***~

It was the same every time. A small part of him knew it was a dream, a nightmare. It had to be – but more often than not, he was caught up in the same familiar horror. Unable to wake up.

He was walking down the hall, dank and dark. Further on was a heavy oaken door covered with protective runes. From behind that door, he could hear sobbing, a woman crying. He would send her away, giving her false assurances. The Sage paused and shifted the heavy blue-grey robes he wore. There was a creeping numbness in his heart. Behind this door there would be...a flash of images flittered across his mind. Blue eyes in pain, pleading. An azure, stylised dagger-wickedly sharp. And blood, so much blood flowing down and pooling along the cold flagstones of the underground vault. Blood caking his boots and staining his robes.

He would have to do this. As he had done before, and as he would again and again and again. He would never be allowed to forget. This was his pledge to save his king’s soul. This was his penance.

With growing dread, he placed his hand on the door’s handle.

“You need not do this, Murata-Sage.”

The smell of clean earth and growth permeated the hall, and the Maou was behind him – breath against his neck. This was not meant to happen.

“How are you here?” he asked confused.

“You let me in this time.”

“This time?” 

“I have tried many times, Sage. I will never stop.” There was infinite sorrow in his words. “You need not do this,” The Maou repeated.

He looked down at the doorknob, cold in his hand and the broken sobs from the other side continued.

“I have to. I promised.”

“Your pledge is fulfilled. This moment in mortal reckoning is no more. This place is only a shadow of your mind.”

“I cannot forget it.”

The Maou’s voice was regretful, “I cannot change that. Your defences are too strong.” There was a tiny seed of unease in Murata with those words. The Maou continued. “But you need not relive it. Not this time.”

He dropped his hand and he was pulled around into a gentle embrace. The hall disappeared and the nightmare faded from his conscious mind and he was entangled with a warm body, a transition which made complete sense.

_I am Murata Ken_ , he thought, and held onto that, though he couldn’t remember why it was important. Something about a dark hall, but it didn’t seem to matter.

The view around his bed was greenery. Sunlight filtered green through the leaves of the ancient trees above them.

He raised his arm, marvelling at mottled green silhouetted around his hand. In the distance, he could hear birds calling.

Another hand slid up his arm and then clasped around his fingers. The Maou was looking down at him – not Yuuri, just the Maou, with a strange curious look in his feline eyes, a softness that seemed odd in those catlike features.

Tenderly, the Maou placed their clasped hands on his heart, the talons carefully gentle against his skin. The ring felt warm. His mind was slow and full of clouds.

“Sage.” The thought vibrated in his head feathery sweet and perfect filling him with pure delight. “You are mine.”

“Yours,” he agreed hazily, his mind drifting in soft euphoria. “Since before I was born,” he repeated, feeling so free, any thoughts of guilt or misery barely a memory. Nothing could possibly feel bad here. The Maou traced the ring over his heart. 

“And the bright one and anointed kaiser also,” was the self-satisfied answer, so arrogant and certain and a part of him thought he should be irritated but he only felt happy. He vaguely puzzled at the use of ‘kaiser’, a very old word for king in Shin Makoku, the word brought to Earth by the mazoku thousands of year ago. His analytical mind gave up after a moment and he allowed the warm safety and the touch of the Maou’s hand lull him again into deep, peaceful sleep. 

_Sleep well, Sage._

When he awoke again, Yuuri was gone, only leaving behind the musky scent of sex and the bed linen in disarray. 

He touched the gold ring around his neck, Wolfram’s ring. It felt unusually warm. His thoughts skittered against a dream he’d had that involved that ring and trees. He shook his head, the memory gone, wakefulness scattering the dream like mist on a bright summer morning.

He rolled on his stomach to avoid the sunlight. The afternoon light was shining directly into his room. The brightness was still behind his eyes and he sighed. He’d have to get up and close the curtains. He lay there for a moment, willing himself to move. He felt lazy. The rest had been refreshing. It had been so long since he’d slept so well. 

He got up, walking carefully over his ripped clothing and pulled the curtain over so the evil light was gone. He smiled, leaning against the wall. His body felt wonderfully sore.

In the dim room, his eyes wandered lazily until he spotted a rich, blue envelope on the table next to the door. 

His smile faded.

Yuuri must have placed it there at some time during the visit. He’d never mentioned it. He walked over stiffly and then paused next to the table. 

Roughly, he pulled long tangled hair back behind his ears. 

The envelope was sealed with black wax, a royal colour- the official colour of the Prince Consort.

Better to see what was inside and deal with it than stand there looking and imagining all types of terrible possibilities.

Inside was a blue parchment and in black in Wolfram’s faultless cursive, a simple invitation

_Dearest Murata,_

_I cordially request your attendance for private tea in the central West Garden tomorrow at first quarter._

It was signed beautifully in mazoku cursive swirls without any title, Wolfram. 

His eyes stung. He wasn’t crying. Murata Ken had never cried, but he was close. He brushed the paper against his lips and touched it to the ring resting against his chest. He dared to hope. 

Just a little.

~***~

**Comments/reviews are always appreciated.**


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